


War of the Laurels

by Spectre4hire



Series: Blood and Laurels [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Death, Cousland is not a Warden, DA fic inspired by A song of ice and fire, Dragon age meets game of thrones, F/M, Fereldan Civil War, Gen, Multiple Origins, POV Multiple, Past mentions of Male Cousland/Anora, Politics, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-02-03 01:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 63,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12738252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spectre4hire/pseuds/Spectre4hire
Summary: There is no Duncan at Highever when Howe reveals his true colors, but Edmund Cousland survives Howe's treachery along with the rightful heir of Highever, his nephew Oren. The Fereldan Civil War changes drastically when it's a Cousland who leads the resistance.This is a multiple perspective story that covers various plots including Denerim, Orzammar, and the Fereldan Civil War.





	1. Edmund

**Author's Note:**

> This is another fic that I started over at fanfic.net, and thought I'd cross post over onto this site as well.
> 
> This story will be told through multiple perspectives and will focus more on the Fereldan Civil War that is only hinted at and or mentioned briefly during the game. This is an AU, so expect some liberties. The Blight and the Grey Warden will become part of the story, but that will come down the road. Hope you enjoy.

It was gone.

He had lost everything; His home, his friends, and most of his family.

Edmund Cousland snuck a glance at his nephew who thankfully found sleep in the comfort of Edmund's mabari, Sarim, who was curled up beside the young boy. Oren let out a whimper before restlessly stirring beneath the makeshift blanket of his uncle's cloak. After a moment or two he settled back down and slipped back into a peaceful slumber.

They had come in the night. They were welcomed guests. They were friends and allies.

It was all a lie.

They had struck when the castle slept. With surprise and strength of numbers they overwhelmed the few guards on duty. Unmolested, Howe's men poured into the castle corridors resembling a ravenous horde attacking anything that moved.

They raped the faithful priests and sisters of Andraste. They butchered the loyal servants and guards, culminating in the betrayal of their liege lord when they sacked the castle and put those they swore to honor and obey to the sword-the Cousland family.

Howe, he growled at the name. He was responsible. He was the master behind this treachery and bloodshed. Howe had preyed on Bryce Cousland's trust, and took advantage of his kind heart before stabbing Edmund's father in the back.

Edmund tightened his grip on the Cousland family sword that had been resting on his lap. The sword was a precious family heirloom that dated back to the time of King Calenhad who united Ferelden nearly four centuries ago. It was one of the few items from his ancestral home that had escaped Howe's attack.

His eyes returned to the glowing embers of the dying fire. Oren and Sarim nestled together close to the heat of the flames to combat the chill in the air. They had made camp here less than three hours ago. Getting off of the road and finding a secluded place in the surrounding woods. It had been risky to stop so soon after escaping the castle, but it was necessary.

Oren was not built for these trials and tribulations that were now besieging him. Exhausted, frightened, and unable to stay on his feet, they had been forced to make camp. The boy wouldn't even turn nine till the spring, and already he had witnessed a dozen lifetimes worth of bloodshed, chaos, and devastation.

When they did make camp, Oren had whimpered and sobbed in Edmund's arms until exhaustion finally consumed him; drifting off into sleep Edmund hoped his nephew could find some peace in his dreams.

Poor Oren, he thought softly. Remembering his nephew's innocence before the attack, he lived in the fabled stories of Black Fox and the other heralded heroes of Ages past. How he wielded his imaginary blade fighting off a dire bunny with his sword of truthiness.

It was almost enough to bring a small smile to Edmund's cracked lips.

Before the attack he remembered Oren's earnestness to train with real steel, his mother's apprehension, and his father's encouraging support. Oren had begged Edmund to start training him while his papa and grandpa were down south. So that he could live out his dreams of becoming a knight worthy of bard's songs, who fought dragons and slayed all sorts of monsters.

Now Oren understood which monster had the darkest of hearts-men. His innocence snuffed out. It was replaced with enough fear and grief to drown an ordinary man. It would not be the images of his picture books Oren would remember, but the images from the sacking of Cousland Castle.

His mother's bloodied corpse.

Oren had seen the horrors of battle unfold before his eyes: men sliced and cleaved, limbs hacked off, heads removed. Men and women screams filled with anguish before being silenced by the flash of steel. He watched his grandmother die before his eyes. Her body peppered with arrows. He saw his grandfather crawling on all fours like a wounded beast. Bloodied, and dying, crying and grieving at all he had lost before he too died.

He worried for his nephew after having witnessed such horrendous acts at his tender and impressionable age.

Edmund faced a difficult dilemma. He knew they had to continue to travel with haste to stay ahead of Howe, but he also couldn't overexert his nephew. His nephew's body couldn't endure the same hardships and grueling conditions that men could. It couldn't go as long without food, or water, or rest. Oren was already in a weakened state, emotionally and physically.

Mulling over how to best move forward with his nephew, Edmund grabbed a sausage from his bag. He had packed his and Oren's bags to the brim with food, supplies, and water before they left the castle. His shuffling of the food hadn't gone unnoticed by Sarim. The large dark furred mabari raised his head up, his intelligent black eyes transfixed on the sausage.

Edmund held up his hand to keep his mabari from moving.

Sarim let out a low groan to signal his discontent but nonetheless obeyed the command. Returning his head to rest on Oren's back.

Satisfied, Edmund put the sausage over the embers after adding some more kindling. The flames were rejuvenated and he was able to cook it quickly. Even in his hunger, the food didn't go down smoothly. His stomach rumbled and protested but thankfully he was able to keep it down. 

They'd be setting out soon. He was determined to leave at first light. And looking up at the sky, Edmund was sure that would be within the hour. He wanted to continue to put as much distance as he could between them and Howe's forces in Highever.

An escape that was only hours old, where they left behind their family's ancestral seat using a secret passage hidden in the larder that led out past the walls of the castle turning into a causeway that ran off nearly a mile away from the castle, and out beyond the walls of Highever. Once he existed the causeway, he looked back needing one last glimpse of Cousland Castle, but instead all he saw was a bright orange glow. 

Their escape did not come without a price.

His mother, and Teyrna of Highever, Eleanor Cousland was killed before they reached the larder. It took four arrows to bring down the battle maiden whose bravery on the battlefield during the Rebellion was legendary. She had just enough strength to say a few parting words before death took her.

From there, determined to protect his nephew and rightful heir of Highever, Edmund led his small array of forces of servant and guards to Cousland Hall. He wanted to regroup with any other survivors as well as find his father. But before he could reach the Hall, remembering his mother's words he sought out the family treasury to recapture some of the family's most precious heirlooms..

Howe's men were waiting for them including a few knights. However, Edmund was no novice when it came to sword and shield. He had won countless melee tourneys in his youth all throughout Ferelden, and his time in Orlais had helped to transform him from a tourney champion into a battle hardened warrior. He was able to cut his way through Howe's forces to retrieve the items his mother had wanted to be saved from looting.

Those next who paid the price for defending Edmund and Oren were the remaining servants, soldiers, and handful of knights in Cousland hall led by the valiant and loyal Ser Roderick Gilmore. They perished in Cousland Hall to protect Oren and Edmund's retreat. They barricaded the gates, and were determined to fight to their dying breath for the Cousland family. They were heroes, fighting with courage and loyalty that could not be shaken. Edmund was sure that one day bards would sing of their legendary feat of bravery and sacrifice.

It was not until they reached the entrance to the secret passageway did Edmund finally find his father. Lying in a pool of his own blood, was Bryce Cousland, the Teyrn of Highever. His hand pressed to his side, slick with blood from an ugly wound. His father had died in his arms within minutes of their arrival.

And with that last sight, Edmund grabbed his nephew whose eyes were red and puffy, tears stained cheeks, the blood of his mother freshly stained on his clothes. He led Oren and Sarim through the passageway and out of the castle.

Edmund felt tears trickle down his cheeks, tasting the saltiness as some brushed down against his lips. His hands were trembling in his lap. He tried to steady them by holding the Cousland family sword, but still they shook. His body was shaking while he silently sobbed. He bit his lip to stop himself from being too loud not wanting to wake Oren. The torment had nestled itself deep within him, radiating an ache that he could not put to words. Strums of grief went through him, while a void seemed to expand within his chest.

I cannot break, he reminded himself, recovering only after seconds of allowing his grief to seep through his demeanor. Oren is depending on me. I need to be his rock. I must bear this burden without cracking. I cannot show my despair, my own pain in front of him. I cannot allow myself to be overcome with this grief. Oren will look to me, and I must give him all of my strength so that he can move forward. If he even whiffs my doubts, my fears then all is lost for both of us.

He looked over and was relieved to see his nephew was still fast asleep. He wiped away the tears with the back of his arm not wanting any evidence to remain of his breakdown. Edmund shifted his position and brought his still trembling hands to the glowing embers of the fire. The warmth was most welcome for his aching fingers and cold shaky hands.

Lost in his thoughts of the attack, he looked up. Though the sky was still dark, and the stars were still glowing over the horizon a faint reddish light was beginning to seep into the skies. The sun would be up soon.

It was time for them to go. He was sure Howe would soon notice the absence of their bodies and when he did he would send out riders and search parties in all directions to find them.

Howe's treachery left Edmund in a very vulnerable position. There were many Banns, freeholders, knights and even wealthy families who swore loyalty and service to the Cousland family and the Teyrnir of Highever. Yet with Howe's betrayal he wasn't sure who to go to, or who to trust. He wasn't sure how far this treachery went and how many others colluded with Howe. If he chose poorly he and Oren would be walking right into the arms of traitors.

He believed his best bet was south. He needed to leave the Coastlands at once now that Howe held Highever and Amaranthine. By journeying south he could make for the Bannorn or even head east towards Denerim or South Reach.

With a general direction decided on, Edmund began to pack up their makeshift camp. He wanted to leave quickly and leave behind little to no trace of their presence. Once he finished the brief packing of their small camp, he turned his attention to the embers, prodding them with a stick in trying to coax the flames to return. They did, so he rummaged through his bag to get two sausages to cook.

He moved over towards Oren and Sarim. The latter already alertly awake since the sausages had come out. Sarim's earlier obedience was rewarded when Edmund presented his war hound with a sliver of a sausage which Sarim gently took from his hand with his powerful jaws devouring it quickly before licking Edmund's hand of the greasy residue that had been left behind.

Oren looked peaceful in his sleep, his expression content, his lips slightly curved. No doubt, he was having pleasant dreams. It seemed almost cruel of Edmund to have to wake him up pulling him out his dreams and back into the horrible reality the two were currently in.

"Oren," Edmund whispered.

"Papa?" Oren stirred under Edmund's cloak. His voice thick with sleep. His eyes remained closed.

"No," Edmund answered after a brief pause. "It's only me."

The words coaxed Oren. His eyelashes fluttered before blinking to reveal his brown eyes. Edmund could see his eyes taking in the situation while his mind was sorting out what was real and what were illusions from his dream. In seconds the full weight of reality came crashing down onto the shoulders of his eight year old nephew.

"Oh," Oren said, eyes swimming with unshed tears, his bottom lip trembled.

Edmund was quick to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, running his other hand through his unruly brown hair. "Come let's eat, you'll feel better once you do."

Oren sniffed, clamoring out of the cloak. "A-alright," his voice cracked. Sarim attended the young boy with a few sloppy kisses on his cheek which caused Oren to muster a small smile before he hugged the hound's meaty neck, burying his face in Sarim's dark fur.

He offered his nephew a cooked sausage which Oren took. He delicately nibbled at the piece of meat while Sarim sat beside him on his haunches. The hound's eyes never leaving the sausage.

"We need to hurry," Edmund had eaten his sausage in two bites. He was smothering the flames from their fire.

"So that Howe's men can't kill us too?" 

Edmund stiffened. He didn't know what was worse the words Oren used or the casual tone the eight year old had used to address their dire situation. He felt his throat tighten as he turned away from the fire, feeling his smile falter, but he forced it to remain on his lips.

"They're not going to kill us," He reassured his nephew. "I won't let that happen."

Thankfully, Oren took solace in that. After a few more bites of his sausage he gave the rest of it to a patient Sarim who devoured the offering in one bite.

"Where are we going, Uncle?"

Edmund slung his shield onto his back and sheathed his sword before turning toward his nephew.

"Somewhere safe."


	2. Howe

The hall smelled of ash and death.

Its walls smoldered from the fires that went unchecked throughout much of the castle during the attack. The floors were splattered with blood.

Bodies lay strewn across the floor of the guards, servants, and knights who foolishly resisted. They were traitors to their dying breaths.

His guards and servants were milling around the hall, stripping the bodies of clothes, armor, weapons, and any other sorts of valuables that could be found on their person. After being stripped, the naked bodies were piled in a corner awaiting transport out of the castle. Most would just be unceremoniously tossed into a ditch providing fodder for wolves and crows.

A few, however were to be strung up throughout Highever to serve as a reminder of who now ruled the Teyrnir and as a warning to those who would unwisely try to rebel against their new liege lord.

"Where are they?"

A soldier appeared beside him, "over here, Your Lordship"

Howe smiled. He liked the sound of that. He silently followed the soldier over to the far corner of the hall where four bodies laid separately from the others.

He looked down onto the face of Bryce Cousland. A face fixed in a permanent display of agony. The eyes were squeezed tight, lips pursed together, grimacing. A nasty gash crawled up from his hip to about half way up his abdomen. 

You brought this on yourself, Howe mused, feeling no discomfort or guilt for the actions he carried out. They were for the greater good of Ferelden. His only regret was not seizing the opportunity sooner to carry out this much needed form of justice. The Couslands were traitors. They had been hording riches from foreign nations in return for favors.

They had supported the union of their eldest son to a daughter of an Antivan merchant. How Eleanor and Bryce could approve of this mingling of their bloodlines with an Antivan was beyond him. Didn't they understand that the offspring of that marriage would make the future Teyrn of Highever just as much Antivan as Fereldan.

It just wasn't right.

The Couslands were allowing foreigners to take through marriage what they never could in battle.

They had to be stopped. Ferelden should be ruled by Fereldans. Howe understood this. He remembered why they fought in the Rebellion. He wouldn't forsake his duty and honor for his country for a few gold coins and promises from foreigners.

The union of this Antivan whore didn't even come with freeholders or sworn swords. When Howe asked what they were getting out of this union, Eleanor had told him the happiness of their son. It had taken all of his discipline not to sneer and roll his eyes at such a pitiful answer.

They were fools.

Highever was better off without them.

And here she lay now. Eleanor Cousland peppered with so many arrows she more resembled a pincushion then a proper Teyrna. Where was your precious happiness now? He demanded of the corpse. Your son's love brought you nothing but your undoing.

He shook his head at their folly. It was just another grievance to add to the growing list of their sedition.

His eyes then drifted to the harlot herself, pleased to see the sword remained in her stomach. It was a kindness, he thought. Noticing no signs of rape as her gown surprisingly was still intact. No doubt, the men were eager to just finish her off without thinking about properly relishing their triumph. Pity…

Unlike the other corpses of the Cousland family, the fourth one was badly burnt. The only indicator that this charred husk was a child was by its small size.

"What happened to this one?" Howe toed the charred corpse with his boot.

"The fires," answered the soldier.

Obviously, Howe wanted to snap, but he restrained himself. "And we're sure this is the boy?"

The soldier gave him a blank look clearly caught off guard by the question. "Who else would it be, Your Lordship?"

The temptation to hit him for his stupidity was great but Howe stayed his hand.

"It's not him, Your Lordship," announced a new voice, as a man dressed in fine silverite armor approached them. A young man with short crop of blonde hair, and intelligent brown eyes which helped to give him a handsome look. This was Captain Chase, one of Howe's most trusted knights.

It was a pity that he was low born. He reached his peak as a captain, and that promotion had been a generous boon on Howe's part for past services.

"What do ya mean?" asked the soldier sounding affronted. "Of course its him! It's a child ain't he?"

Howe ignored the soldier. "What makes you sure?"

"I was going over the area where they found the traitor," Chase gestured to the deceased former Teyrn. "And some things aren't adding up."

"What things?" Howe demanded, feeling his anger beginning to rise within his chest. He didn't need complications. He needed this transition of rulers to be done smoothly.

"It would be quicker if I just showed you, Your Lordship."

Howe nodded. He was tired of this round-about talking. He didn't need words or hunches. Those were useless. He needed facts.

"Take me there."

Chase bowed and stepped aside to allow Howe to pass him. This low born understood his status and place in the world.

Where Howe couldn't always necessarily trust some of his other well born knights or soldiers, he trusted Chase. Lowborn or not, he was dutiful, respectful, and left no stone unturned. His low birth gave him an edge over some of the more pampered noble knights. Chase wasn't afraid of getting his hands dirty. He could be gritty and ruthless if needed.

Captain Chase worked very hard for him, always striving to do his best. This was in part because Chase nursed a growing affection towards Howe's only daughter, Delilah. He should've squashed the boy's ill-conceived notions that he actually stood a chance of marrying a nobleman's daughter especially since that daughter was Howe's only one. He wasn't going to waste her on a low born knight. She would be used to secure an important alliance with a powerful Fereldan family.

Yet, instead of crushing the boy's misplaced dreams, Howe instead let slip that his loyalty and service would one day be properly rewarded. If that meant the Captain would believe that he could one day marry Delilah then the fault was with him, not Howe.

Such false promises lead to very real results.

"Where was he found?"

"In the larder, Your Lordship."

"Truly?" Howe was greatly amused at that image.

"Yes, Your Lordship."

"And he was alone?"

Chase stiffened, "That's what I wanted you to see."

Howe didn't like that one bit. As they entered the kitchens, which had already been stripped of food, and other provisions during the attack. The larder too was now bare; the only noticeable thing in the room was a large pool of blood that no doubt belonged to Bryce Cousland. He watched Chase make his way over towards the pool of blood, kneeling beside it.

"Look, Your Lordship."

At what? Howe wanted to snap, but he controlled himself. Stepping closer to the pool of blood, his eyes followed where Chase was pointing to. At first he saw nothing, but looking closer he saw sticky red prints. Inspecting them further he made out three distinct tracks-A man, a dog, and a child.

He knew who they belonged to at once. It seemed Bryce's youngest had taken his nephew and his mabari war hound, but how…

"There's a secret door somewhere here." Chase seemed to have guessed what Howe was thinking. He pointed to the part where the bloody prints stopped just in front of the wall.

"It must be some sort of secret passageway that leads out of the castle." The Captain was groping the wall with his hands trying to find the entrance.

"They must be found at once," Howe declared. The last thing he needed was for his new rule to be questioned. If he was going to provide a better and more stable reign then he needed them apprehended at once.

"I want riders sent in all directions. Every town, farm, and home searched. Every rider on the road is to be questioned, and harassed if their memories are a bit fuzzy."

"Understood," Chase gave him a crisp salute. "I'll give the instructions to the men myself."

Howe nodded. It was times like these he was very pleased he had the Captain on his side. Then again, the credit should go to Howe. It was he who saw the boy's talent, and ignored his low born station and gave him the opportunities to prove his worth.

"And for the soldier who presented me with the burnt corpse." That soldier would make Howe appear weak and foolish in front of not just his men, but all of Highever. That could not be tolerated.

"See to it that he is properly punished."

"It will be done, Your Lordship." Chase crossed his arms over his chest and bowed. He left without another word.

Edmund Cousland, Howe mused.

There was a time when Howe had hoped to unite his family with the Couslands. A foolish notion now, but at the time when he suggested the betrothal it seemed an ideal match for the families. The union would've successfully united Amaranthine and Highever. Turning them into the strongest and most formidable family in the Coastlands. The Couslands, however, had the audacity to spurn his generous offer.

He was better off, of course. They were now proven traitors to Ferelden. However, it still prickled his pride that they denied him. As if they were better than him, as if their family was better than his.

The arrogance! Their foolish choices had cost them everything. Howe took some satisfaction in that, but more in seizing their lands for himself. In the next Age no one will even remember the Cousland name.

His Delilah was better off without Edmund. The youngest Cousland was an arrogant little worm. He prided himself a knight because he won a few melee tourneys. Ha! He was nothing but a spoiled brat.

Besides Edmund Cousland had shown his true nature during the Tourney in Highever…

Howe could still remember that day as if it happened yesterday and not eight years ago. Everyone throughout the country had come to Highever for the tourney: banns, freeholders, hedge knights, all of the Arls with their best knights and men-at-arms. Even the King and Crown Prince and their retainers had come to the tourney. King Maric was to present the winners of each event with their rewards. It was considered the finest tournament Ferelden had seen since the Rebellion.

Edmund Cousland had won his event. Thoroughly trouncing hedge knights and the other would be knights who were pampered noblemen who fancied themselves soldiers when they dressed in armor and wielded swords.

In his victory celebration he besmirched Anora Mac Tir's name and reputation. Her betrothal to the Crown Prince had just been recently announced. His actions were tantamount to treason. He had the insolence to openly flaunt his close relationship with the Teyrn's daughter in front of the entire kingdom.

His insolence was unjustifiable despite his father's best efforts to soothe the situation over with King Maric and Teyrn Loghain. Edmund's actions deserved the noose not the lavish exile in Orlais he received. Six years he spent fostered by a wealthy and powerful Orlesian family.

That was his punishment for humiliating the kingdom. It was an outrage. It wasn't justice. Once more Bryce Cousland was able to flaunt his position and his power for the betterment of his family, not Ferelden.

Edmund even married an Orlesian noblewoman and was granted lands. His parents weren't ashamed of him. They were not embarrassed that their son had gotten himself exiled. No, they were happy for him and the life he had made for himself in Orlais. They had even gone to Orlais to visit him.

It was all rather pathetic.

They believed happiness was the primarily motivation in life. That honor and mercy should be rewarded. They were sentimental fools, and it cost them everything: their lands, their titles, their legacy, and their lives.

The Cousland family prided themselves on their family's history and their lasting imprint on Ferelden. For all of their love of Ferelden and all their talk of pride and duty to their country, they had allowed their two sons to marry foreigners an Antivan for their eldest and heir, and an Orlesian for their exiled son.

Hypocrites and traitors, that's what they were!

Howe found some small form of fairness when he had heard that Edmund's wife had died. The boy hadn't deserved a lavished exile for what he did. He didn't deserve wealth, lands, or a family. He deserved death. Even then he didn't suffer long since he was allowed back into Ferelden on an official royal pardon from King Cailan. The royal pardon had the fingerprints of Bryce Cousland all over it with his Orlesian ties and his influence over the impressionable king.

Thankfully, Ferelden was free of Bryce Cousland. Howe had seen to that.

The common folk were too stupid to see it right away, too stubborn and stuck in the old ways to see that by taking Highever Howe was securing their future. He was going to keep Ferelden for Fereldans. In the end, he was sure they would see reason, and they would love him for it.

Howe found his way back to Cousland Hall. No, Howe Hall, he silently corrected himself.

Standing in the hall, he was pleased to see most of the bodies had been stripped, their valuables sorted in a handful of piles. He walked over towards a pair of soldiers who were sifting through the clothes of the dead. No doubt trying to find some lost jewelry or loose coin. They immediately stopped upon his approach, stiffening their posture, and bowing low.

"String them up in the market square," Howe ordered, gesturing to the four corpses of the Cousland family. Let the public for the time believe he had killed the young brat. It would be true soon enough, and then he would add Edmund and the boy's corpse with the rest of his family. And no one would doubt who ruled Highever now.

Satisfied at their quick response, Howe left them just as they lifted up the corpse of Bryce Cousland to carry him out.

"Your Lordship?" His aide came up alongside him. "The army is awaiting your orders."

He now possessed the largest army in Ferelden outside of Teyrn Loghain who controlled the bulk of the country's forces. But, right now the Teyrn was far south at Ostagar, leaving Howe's army unchecked in the Coastlands and in the north. He had already decided that he would leave a sizable garrison behind with his newly pointed regent, his son Tomas to curb any resentment or misguided thoughts of rebellion that the people of Highever might have towards their new liege lords.

However, the rest of his army would not be staying in Highever. They would become restless and bored and that could cause trouble in the area that Howe couldn't afford or wanted.

"We are to march to Denerim," Howe answered, "To offer our assistance to the Queen and to secure the capital."

"I'll inform the officers," replied the aide, crossing his arms over his chest and bowing.

And if Loghain, King Cailan, and their forces perish at Ostagar then he would go to the capital to secure his bid to the throne, he silently added once the aide had left. A small smile bloomed on his lips at the thought of securing the crown for himself. He would rise higher than any Howe before him.

It was nothing less then what he deserved.


	3. Kylon

"I'm tellin ya its true!" the voice sounded indignant.

"Bullshit," the second one scoffed. "It's just whore talk."

"She's reliable."

"If by getting giving you a few rashes," the second one observed, "then yeah, she's reliable."

Sgt. Robert Kylon grit his teeth. Listening to them was a true test of his discipline. It was just another patrol for him; another chance for him listening to his guards swap whore stories and gossip. It was an expected part of his experience when it came to these patrols, but just because it was expected, doesn't mean he enjoyed listening to it. He simply had to endure it.

These were the men entrusted to protect Denerim, her citizens. It wasn't a comfort. Especially since now with the King gone, the city guard was now more heavily relied on. If worse came to worse, it would be them forced to defend the city.

That was a troubling thought.

Men who joined the city guard were not typically fighters, but sons of influential freeholders and merchants, who enjoyed the praise and the ability to boast of their progeny's service to the capital. It was a small blip up the social ladder. Whoever deemed having family members in the city guard worthy of upwards social movement must have been a few silvers short of a sovereign.

These men weren't expected to get in fights or scuffles, perish the thought of one them actually being injured. Then he'd be forced to go to the guard's father and explain to them that there was an actual danger in serving the guard. And Kylon's Guard Captain wouldn't approve either. He too enjoyed the benefits of handing out jobs to those families who could pay the small entrance fee.

Robert Kylon was in a broken system.

That didn't bother him because he understood that he lived in a broken world. He learned long ago the best he could do in a broken world was try to fix it, little by little. That's what he tried to do as a sergeant within the city guard. Sometimes it meant he enforced the law, other times it meant ignoring it, but as long as a problem got fixed, and the world became a little bit of a better place; Robert Kylon wasn't going to complain.

It helped that as sergeant he had a hand in training the recruits. Those willing to listen and get their hands dirty were the ones he focused on. It was them he tried to instill his perspective and thankfully many took to it.

He could see a difference.

It was slow but steady progress. However, it still made him pleased, and proud in saying that the city was a better place now then it was six months ago.

He left the recruits that were sons of merchants and noblemen to his superiors as much as he could. However, it was still expected of him to take them out on patrol on occasion. On days like today when he had to endure their presence he tried to keep his mouth shut and his eyes focused.

Robert let them talk, brag, complain and often times they tired themselves out and became more docile and willing to listen to him. Unfortunately that meant that he first had to listen to hours of their bluster.

"She was told by a sailor who was just in Highever." The argument continued. The first voice belonged to the son of a wealthy Amaranthine merchant. He had only been with the guard for less than a year. He was a decent enough fellow. He spent too much time at brothels for Kylon's taste, but wasn't as nasty or petty as other merchants sons that Robert had the ill-fated pleasure of knowing.

The second voice belonged to the third son of a powerful freeholder. Cursed by being the third son, his options had been limited with his oldest brother inheriting his father's land and wealth. The second brother had used the remainder of his family's wealth to become a knight. Penniless, the third son was left with a choice by his father-Chantry or City Guard.

"Sailors," the second one didn't seem won over by that source. "And what else did this whore tell you?"

"That he was coming this way."

That got Robert's attention, turning back to face the men, who he had been listening prattle on for the better part of their shift. "What is it you two are talking about?"

The two men looked startled at suddenly being addressed, and somewhat surprised that he had been listening to their conversation all this time.

"Arl Howe," answered the first one. "They say he sacked Highever, killed the Couslands, and claimed the Teyrnir."

"And I say it's all made up," the second one was shaking his head.

The first one gave him a reproachful look. "Not if you've ever heard of Howe's reputation."

"So Howe is coming here?" asked Kylon.

"Yes, with his forces," he looked a bit smug that Kylon was taking interest in what he was saying.

"And I say it's not true," dismissed the second one. "He should be south with the King and the others at Ostagar."

"That's true," Kylon agreed, mulling over their stories, realizing both had points in their favor, but it never hurt to be cautious. Especially in regards to a large force moving towards Denerim.

"What do you think, ser?"

"That less arguing in our patrol may better serve the people."

Thankfully, the two heeded his words and fell silent.

The people, Kylon looked around the city's market where they stood vigilant for any sign of criminal wrongdoing. The Denerim Market was pivotal to the city's wealth and welfare. It was crucial that as guardsmen they did anything and everything to make sure that it continued to run smoothly and efficiently.

Here, the number one problem that Kylon and his guards faced was thievery. There were lots of vulnerable marks around the market, from genteel ladies mesmerized by the number of diverse wares, booths, and other goods that couldn't be found anywhere else in Ferelden. It was also in the market where many of the taverns and brothels emptied out into. There the patrons were too drunk to be aware of their surroundings or the fact their purses were lighter or missing. Their drunkenness also meant to be watchful for signs of brawls and other violent altercations.

Everyday more people came to the city, seeking shelter behind Denerim's high stone walls, people who had lost their lands and homes to the darkspawn. They mostly inhabited the southern reaches of Ferelden that had been first hit by the darkspawn. Some had been forced out of their land on orders of the King for their own safety. They were given some money and some supplies as well as a few soldiers who escorted them to the capital.

Once the refugees reached Denerim they were on their own. When it came to finding work or a home that was their responsibility, not the Crown's. If they wanted to secure transport and leave that was their choice. They were brought here but it was up to them to decide what to make of their opportunity. Watching the flocks passing through, Kylon noticed two distinct outlooks and expressions that were common among the refugees.

There were some that looked hopeful as they took in the sights of Denerim. They took this as a blessing. This was their chance to improve the lives they left behind back in the south. Their eyes were wide and smiles bright as they breathed in the marvels of this city.

Many probably had never seen more than a handful of buildings and now they were looking at Fereldan's most important and beautiful city. This was the birthplace of Andraste with its historic Denerim Chantry while Drakon Tower stood tall and proud over the city, a testament of the Imperium's once considerable power.

Yet others didn't look so happy to be arriving. Their faces sullen, eyes downcast these were people who looked lost and terrified. They were tossed into an unfamiliar city expected to survive on their own. Already understanding that their chances were slim, they realized that they didn't belong here, that there wasn't much need for farmers behind the walls of Denerim.

Their outlooks were different, but they had one thing in common. They would be targeted, tormented, and taken advantage of. They would be ignored, spat on, and that was if they were lucky, if they weren't they'd be fleeced and stabbed and left to die in one of the many dark foreboding alleys that spread through this city like thin tendrils of a spider's web.

Robert Kylon understood that they would need his protection. The city was a better place due to his efforts over the years, but it was far from perfect. It was far from safe.

Until it was a safer place Kylon would have to pick up the slack. It was no small order, but he felt obligated as a man of the city guard to do what he could to protect and serve all those who needed it within these walls. For now he had to make do with what he had. A city guard stretched too thin, untested men, and corrupt superiors just to name a few of the obstacles in the sergeant's way.

It wouldn't be worth doing if it wasn't a challenge, he quietly surmised. He already placed some of the more trustworthy guards he had on Alienage duty. After the nastiness that the Arl's son had done, the elves were ready to riot, and he couldn't blame them. Interrupting a wedding, abducting the brides, and then raping them…

It was too much for Kylon to stomach. He had sworn an oath of service to the Kendells family when he was sworn into the city guard, but he wouldn't allow any oath to constrict him from doing what was right. He found ways to circumvent the oath, putting his duty to the people over his sworn service to the Kendells family. In his duty to protect the people he did what many would not and included the elves, who most in this city thought of as nothing more than an indentured race.

One step at a time, he reminded himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't find a 'canon' name for Kylon, so I gave him the name Robert. 
> 
> I like to thank Flaremage for taking the time to comment. I appreciate it. 
> 
> Until the next chapter,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	4. Anora

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay, my laptop crashed in December, and only now have gotten a new laptop.

It was strange not having them around.

The Queen of Ferelden could not remember the last time she had been without both of them. In recent days before they went south to fight the darkspawn all her husband and father could talk about was strategy in how to defend Ferelden. They left the capital weeks ago to head to Ostagar to fight the darkspawn in what her husband believed in a battle that would once and for all end the darkspawn threat. Her husband's usual confidence soared after a series of earlier victories.He assured her of their pending success before setting out for Ostagar.

It was not just victory Cailan promised, but changes. She could still remember his face when he said it, his smile was gone and his expression turned serious. It was one of the few times she could remember him without his smile and looking so stoic.

Deep down, it had troubled her.

Anora was not immune to the gossip that spread through the capital. She was aware of the blame that was being leveled on her by many of the nobles. Five years of marriage, and there had been no children born. Not even a pregnancy.

Barren, that's what they were calling her.

Punishment that was the excuse they gave. The Maker was punishing them for putting a commoner on the throne. To them her father was a Teyrn by name only. He had no noble blood. In the eyes of many the Mac Tirs were unwelcomed within the ranks of the older aristocratic families. 

Common birth or not, she's effectively ruled Ferelden these last five years. Cailan was king, but it was Anora who was overseeing the steady growth of Ferelden. Slowly, but surely she was proud of how Ferelden was developing. It was her policies that had made Ferelden richer, had made Ferelden stronger. She was the reason why Ferelden had enough food stored to allow the country to endure a few rough harvests.

Anora was far from done. She had plans for opening up a University in Denerim. She wanted to attract some of the great minds of Thedas. She wanted to change the perception that Ferelden was still a backwards country. It was not just an army that curbed threats of invasion, but respect. She was painfully aware that Ferelden had little clout with the other nations of Thedas.

Yet, for all the good Anora's done for Ferelden, it was not enough for some. It would never be enough for those who honored blood, not skill. They respected a family's name, not a person's character.

This hadn't always been the life she envisioned.

There was a time when she never thought she would become queen.

Growing up in Denerim with Cailan, she had been aware of the possibilities of her marrying him, but the chances had been pretty small. The same nobles who were blaming her for not giving Cailan an heir now, had been just as adamant in their protests when the offer had first been brought up when she and Cailan were children.

When she was fifteen she was brought to Highever. It was there she would be tutored by Teyrna Eleanor Cousland who would teach her politics, court etiquette, as well as the other responsibilities that came with being a noblewoman. Anora spent two years in Highever, in that time she grew close to the Teyrna and the rest of the Cousland family. She considered the Teyrna a friend and a second mother who helped to fill the gap that her own mother had left behind when she died.

In her time in Highever, it was Edmund Cousland that she found herself drawn to. He was smart, talented, charming, and he had a certain sincerity to him that Cailan had always lacked. They had become quick friends. He was never intimidated by her intelligence. He saw her as an equal. He truly was Eleanor's son.

It didn't take long for her feelings towards him to develop into something beyond friendship. She was young and foolish, and at the time she didn't possibly believe that she would one day be betrothed to Cailan. So instead of stamping out the affection she felt towards Edmund, she allowed it to grow.

Their first kiss had taken place between the towering bookshelves of the library within Cousland Castle. She had only been in Highever for five months when they shared that kiss. Their secret romance only blossomed during the remainder of her two year stay in Highever. In their moments together she even allowed herself to secretly imagine them getting married and returning to Gwaren to rule as Teyrn and Teyrna. They were the dreams of a foolish girl.

Then her father came to Highever with the news that would change everything. It had been decided that she would marry Cailan. Her father and King Maric had agreed to the betrothal arrangement. One day she was going to be Queen. The news was going to be announced throughout Ferelden, and that she was to accompany her father back to Denerim.

She felt tightness in her chest as she remembered what came next. Torn between affection and ambition, in the end, the decision had been relatively easy. She wanted to be the Queen of Ferelden. Whatever feelings she may have had for Edmund paled at the desire to one day rule Ferelden. She had told herself it wasn't personal, just practical.

Anora could still remember telling Edmund about her pending betrothal and that they had been living in a foolish dream. She knew her words cut him deep, but she had to speak them, her words needed to be sharp, her tone needed to be blunt. In order for them to be able to move forward she had to effectively stamp out what they once had and make sure that it never saw the light of day.

Then the Highever tournament happened. It was the first time she saw him since she called off their romance and told him of her plans to marry Cailan. She had hoped the months apart would have had him finally see the reason for her decisions. It hadn't.

Enough, she quietly chastised herself. She didn't want to dwell on what happened next. The pain of those events still stirred within her like sharp thorn pricks coiled around her heart. She had wanted to bury what happened in Highever for so many years- Those memories, her emotions and most importantly him.

"Your Majesty?" the thick Orlesian accented voice of her handmaiden, Erlina broke the Queen from her musings.

Anora turned to find her handmaiden standing in the doorway. She beckoned her in, watching as her handmaiden bowed before her before settling to stand in a position in front of the Queen's desk. "What is it, Erlina?"

"A letter came from one of your friends in the Coastlands," Erlina presented said letter.

The Queen took the letter, opening it to find the vellum mostly blank except for a few words hastily scribbled down.

The Laurels are dead. The Bear has seized their holdings.

Anora stared blankly up after finishing reading the encrypted message. Understanding quickly came to her at realizing the meaning behind the words. "Erlina," she turned towards her silent confidant. "Send for the Seneschal, please. I need to speak with him at once."

"Of course, Your Majesty," Erlina bowed, "Anything else?"

"Y-yes," Anora needed to maintain her composure, "A glass of wine." She ignored the worried look her handmaiden gave her, and was unable to understand the words Erlina spoke before she left, too focused on relaying the simple message over and over again in her head.

A few minutes later she found herself in her parlor sitting in her high back chair, a glass of wine in her hands. She needed something to soothe her nerves and settle her churning stomach. She took a long sip from the glass, thankful for the sweet taste and the calming effect the wine was having.

It had to be a mistake, she thought, blindly grasping at any chance that this couldn't be true. Surely Howe wouldn't be so foolish as to think he would get away with this horrendous act…

"You wanted to see me, Your Majesty?"

She looked up from her glass to see Seneschal Luwin standing before her. He immediately crossed his arms over his chest and bowed low. He was tall and thin, he had aged well in his service under her father. He was brought in as Seneschal for Anora and Cailan when the previous one died several years ago.

He kept his grey hair short, and his brown eyes still showed plenty of strength. His goatee was as grey as his hair and neatly trimmed. His large nose marred his otherwise plain features.

"Yes, I did." She turned her gaze to her trusted handmaiden, "Close the door, Erlina."

Erlina obliged. This was a conversation that Anora didn't want to leave this room.

Luwin's public position was overseeing the king's justice and administration of the palace's servants. However, secretly the Seneschal helped to oversee the various network of spies and agents Anora and him had orchestrated throughout Ferelden and parts of Thedas. Making him one of Anora's most trusted advisers.

"Take a seat," she gestured to an empty chair across from her.

He nodded his thanks, sitting down.

Erlina stepped forward offering him a glass of wine which he graciously took with a nod. "It is true, Your Majesty."

She felt her heart clench tightly. So they were all gone. She considered the Couslands a second family and Highever a second home. For a second the face of Edmund came to her, but she wouldn't allow it to stay, pushing it away. She now had this painful fresh wound to deal with and she couldn't allow herself to reopen old ones.

"I feared as much," she barely recognized her own voice. It was soft and weak. She needed to stay composed. Eleanor always taught her to remain composed. Oh Eleanor, her heart gave another painful lurch. My friend you will be avenged.

"I want Howe in chains!" Anora suddenly demanded, her calm demeanor crumbling to the cold fury that was storming within her. "This cannot be tolerated."

"Your Majesty, it is more difficult than that," The Seneschal reminded her gently. "Howe has an army at his back. We have nothing but the city guard."

"Where is his army heading?"

"He's marching here."

That took Anora by surprise, she would've thought that he would return to Amaranthine to gather his strength and rally his supporters for the judgment that was sure to be coming once her husband and father returned. To hear him coming to Denerim, he was acting as if he had nothing to fear, no reason to be punished. It didn't sit well with Anora.

"May I see the letter you received?" Luwin's question broke Anora from her musings on Howe and what games he was playing at.

She presented him the letter and then watched as he read it. She noticed his brows furrowed and his lips twitched. "Is there something they missed?"

"Yes," he looked up. "I received a message from a friend in the Bannorn."

"What does it say?"

"That not all the Couslands were killed," he returned the letter to her. "That Bryce's youngest escaped with the heir. Howe is quietly looking for them."

Edmund and Oren, Anora realized at once. A spark of hope ignited in her chest at realizing that they were not all slaughtered. His face returned to her, but she was just as persistent at pushing it way. That life is over, she reminded herself.

"Do you know where he would go?"

"East," she answered. "He would come here to Denerim." She knew he would demand a royal audience to speak his justifiable grievance towards Howe. Was that why Howe was coming to Denerim? Was he intending to stop Edmund from reaching the capital first?

Luwin nodded, "Perhaps that is why Howe is marching east, sending out scouts and riders to try to capture him before he reaches us."

"My thoughts exactly," Anora agreed. "What about his brother?"

"Fergus left Highever with their forces. He is headed towards Ostagar, oblivious to the carnage that has happened in his home."

"Do you think Howe has plans for him as well?"

"Surely he does," Luwin answered. "As far as we know, Fergus may have already been killed by an assassin's blade."

She took another sip of wine. The thought of Fergus being betrayed and killed on the road to Ostagar was not an image she wanted to keep.

He brought his hands together under his chin while his elbows rested on the arms of the chair. "However, I don't think Edmund plans on coming here."

"What do you mean?" Anora frowned. "Where else would he go?"

"South Reach."

Of course, Anora thought, realizing her miscalculation. The Arling of South Reach was the seat of the Bryland family. Eleanor was Leonas' older sister. He was never friendly with Howe, and surely, he wouldn't tolerate his own sister being killed in cold blood, Cousland or not.

"And of Howe's approach?"

"We welcome him, Your Majesty," Luwin answered simply.

"Welcome him?" Anora was unable to hide her fury at the notion.

He looked at her sympathetically. "We have to, Your Majesty." He brought his hands to rest on his lap. "We cannot repel him with the city guard. So we must act the dutiful host, let us listen to his story and the causes for his actions."

Anora understood the plan now. "We stall until my husband and father return with their forces."

Luwin smiled, "exactly, Your Majesty." He drank one more sip from the goblet before raising it as if toasting. "Howe will not be able to escape justice."

"Keep me informed of any movement or sightings of Edmund and Oren," Anora instructed. "I want our men to get them before Howe's."

"I couldn't agree more, Your Majesty," He stood up, bowing low, "I will keep you informed by the hour."

"Thank you," she watched him go.

Anora didn't like the idea of Howe entering the capital a free man and the self proclaimed Teyrn of Highever. She would have to swallow the bitter taste and push down the growing anger towards the man if she wanted justice to be served. Anora wouldn't allow herself to tip her hand to him.

She would get justice for the Couslands, she silently vowed. She owed Eleanor that much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is AU. I will be taking liberties so not everything will match up with DA canon. I will be adding additional background to characters, and changing others to fit this story. Some characters may also appear a bit OOC, but I do try to stay true to the spirit of the characters.
> 
> I wrote this story before Eleanor Cousland's backstory was addressed through World of Thedas, so in this story, she is a Bryland.


	5. Fergus

"Right now?" Fergus tried to keep the exasperation out of his tone, but he was failing. It was difficult. Oh, so very difficult.

"Yes, milord," replied the elf meekly. The tips of the boy's ears had gone scarlet in embarrassment.

Fergus Cousland felt some of his anger deflate. It wasn't fair of him to take out his frustration on the poor boy. "Very well," he relented, "Tell His Majesty that I will see him shortly."

The boy bowed low before scurrying off.

Watching him scamper off, only made Fergus feel guiltier.

"Isn't it the darkspawn we're supposed to be fighting," Lt Finley was grinning. "Not poor messengers."

Fergus rolled his eyes at his lieutenant's crack. It wasn't Fergus' fault. He and his forces of Highever had only just arrived after more than a week of marching. And already he was being summoned to see the king. And this particular moment Fergus really didn't want to see his king, he just wanted to rest.

He was sore, and tired, and smelly, and sweaty, and grumpy, very grumpy.

"I suppose I should see what the king wants," Fergus said glumly.

"Aye, you should," Finley agreed, "I'll have the men break for camp."

Fergus made his way over to the king's camp. His body was stiff, but he made sure he looked presentable while making his way through the main camp in what he called his lordly strides. He didn't want his soldiers to snicker if they saw him wobbling and wincing. The burden of nobility, that's how father would dryly put it.

"The King and the Teyrn await your presence," greeted the armored guards outside the flaps of the king's tent. One of them held the flap open for him.

Kingly, that was the word Fergus would use to describe the interior of the tent. It was spacious, well furnished, with rich colored drapes that gave it a warm and inviting feel. He was under no illusions that when his own tent was set up that it would be a quarter this magnificent and less than half its size. Nor would he have the fine furniture that was idly placed throughout the interior.

He found the king towards the middle of the tent where some natural light shined down through a well-conceived opening coming from the tent's top. He was hunched over a table, when Fergus moved closer he noticed what had the king's attention, maps. Maps of Southern Ferelden, a map of Ostagar, and there was even a crude map of the northern parts of the Korcari Wilds, many of which looked ancient. Fergus had to wonder if the king had to pull these maps out of the Chantry archives.

It was Teyrn Loghain who was first to notice his arrival. The stoic faced general nodded stiffly, his piercing blue eyes sweeping over Fergus' haggard appearance before returning to the maps on the table.

"Fergus!" greeted the always boisterous and kind hearted king. Cailan was just as Fergus remembered: tall, handsome, warm eyes, kind smile, and charming.

"Your Majesty," Fergus said, bowing low, his lips twitched when his eyes met Cailan's, who looked thoroughly amused at the protocol.

The King moved around the table in quick large strides, grinning ear-to-ear as he clapped Fergus on the back. "It's about time you showed up." He laughed, "I was afraid I'd have to kill all the darkspawn myself!"

Fergus shared a laugh with his king. He could feel his terse demeanor shifting and his soreness lifted. It was always difficult to be in a bad mood around Cailan. His charm and genuine warmness were infectious. It was a gift, his ability to soften up his opponents with his warm tone and friendly demeanor.

"So many darkspawn to kill so little time."

"Exactly," Cailan was still smiling. "We've missed you in our earlier battles."

"All victories if I recall," Fergus went to the table, Cailan was right beside him. A friendly hand on his shoulder. There were many markings on the map around Southron Hills which Fergus deduced must be where the earlier battles had been fought.

"That's right, all victories," Cailan happily agreed, pointing to one particular mark made on the map on the edge of the Korcari Wilds. "That was a battle, Fergus!" A nostalgic expression flickered across the king's young handsome face. "I slew near two dozen darkspawn myself with nothing but this sword." Cailan fondly tapped the hilt of his greatsword which was resting on the table. "I fought with the Grey Wardens." He was still smiling. "It was a sight to behold!"

"I'm sorry I missed it," Fergus said. "This sounds like the stories bards yearn to tell."

That got Cailan's smile to only grow, which Fergus had thought impossible.

"That is enough of that, I think," Loghain drawled, speaking for the first time and curbing Cailan's enthusiasm. "You talks of battles as songs to be written."

Cailan shrugged off Loghain's disapproval as easily as if it was a winter cloak on a warm spring day. He dropped his hand on Fergus' shoulder and made his way back over to his side of the table beside the Teyrn. "You may have your chance at action, Fergus."

"What do you ask of me, Your Majesty?" He was secretly hoping said task would be to lead the vanguard of the king's forces into battle.

"Here," Loghain gestured to a wide swath of territory within the northern portion of the Korcari Wilds.

"Is that the spot of our next battle?"

"Not exactly," Cailan said.

"We need you to take a small scouting party to scout this area," Loghain instructed.

"Scout?" Fergus knitted his brows together, trying to shield the disappointment from covering his face.

Cailan gave him an apologetic look. "Loghain believes it's important to better understand what we're up against and to make sure there are no nasty surprises waiting for us."

"But surely," Fergus began, making sure to keep his tone respectful before he continued in his protest. "There are others whose station would befit this as an honor?"

"The Teyrn wants veteran men," Cailan explained, "and a seasoned leader."

Loghain was nodding, "Last thing we need is some foolhardy Bann or hedge knight itching for some glory and wealth traipsing through the Korcari Wilds with no sense of what they're doing."

"So you send the man who already has both," Fergus cracked dryly.

"I know this is not what you wanted," Cailan said sympathetically.

You got that right, Fergus mentally replied, but had the sense not to say that out loud. He may be his friend, but he was firstly his king. "And what of Highever's forces?"

"They will be put under my command," Loghain answered.

"Until your father arrives with Howe and his forces from Amaranthine," Cailan finished.

"Very well," Fergus relented. He never could say no to Cailan. It was rather infuriating.

That easy charming smile was back on Cailan's face. "Excellent," he rapped his knuckles across the table. He turned towards the Teyrn. "I told you he would do it."

"You never should have asked him," Loghain voiced his disapproval. "You are the king. You should have just ordered him." The Teyrn of Gwaren's eyes shifted towards Fergus, appraising him. "There should have been no debate or argument, just an affirmation."

Fergus squirmed on the spot. He felt a sliver of guilt worm into his heart at the Teyrn's words. He was right, he mentally agreed. He had tried to use his status and friendship with the king to weasel out of his task, because he didn't find it worthy.

Cailan on the other hand didn't seem to agree. He waved a dismissive hand as if trying to shoo the Teyrn's words out of the tent. "That's enough of that, Loghain." He moved over around the table where a silent servant was standing, who was holding a tray carrying three goblets. "Come Fergus have a drink with me before you're off."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." He hadn't seen or heard the servant come in, but Fergus couldn't deny that a drink seemed sorely needed right now. He nodded his thanks when he took the offered goblet from the servant. He savored the sweet taste of the drink after taking a small sip.

The King drank deep from his goblet. Not putting it down until he finished. "Who's at Highever?"

Fergus hesitated, "my brother, Your Majesty." He preferred to avoid the topic of his brother when he was in the presence of Cailan due to that unfortunate incident all those years ago involving his brother and Cailan's betrothed, as well as Loghain's daughter-Anora.

He glanced over at the taciturn Teyrn who had taken a goblet as well, but hadn't looked to have taken a sip. Like always, his face was impassive, his blue eyes always watching. It was intimidating. His silence just as much, remembering how stoic Loghain had been at the tourney when his daughter's purity had been questioned.

Fergus wasn't sure it was a good idea to keep the topic on his brother while in the company of the two men who Edmund had slighted most that day. However, he also knew that his family was indebted to King Maric and King Cailan for not killing his brother after what he did.

"My brother would be most annoyed with me if I did not convey his gratitude about your royal pardon."

"Think nothing of it," Cailan was helping himself to a second goblet.

"You are too kind, Your Majesty," Fergus took another sip of the delicious wine. "Your aptitude in being able to forgive others is a great gift. Others would not be so generous when their honor had been-"

"Had been what?" Calian looked amused. "Slighted?" He made a face. As if he didn't quite believe that to be the case. "The incident has been a bit romanticized don't you think?"

Fergus snuck a glance at Loghain, still as a statue unmoving, only watching. He turned back to the King, unsure what to say. He was saved from that burden as the Teyrn made his voice heard.

"I'm sure Highever is in capable hands with your brother." That was Loghain, speaking for the first time since the conversation had shifted away from strategy. "I think it best if I retire, Your Majesty. There is still much to do."

"Of course, Loghain," Cailan waved off his good father and general of his armies.

"It was good seeing you, Your Lordship," Fergus bowed his head more out of reverence of Loghain's past heroics then for the title of Teyrn that he now possessed.

Loghain gave the heir of Highever a stiff nod before departing.

He wasn't going to admit it out loud, but Fergus was silently relieved with the Teyrn's departure. He felt an unspoken tension was in the room especially when his brother became the focal point of the conversation. Not to mention Loghain's impassive expression and blunt personality didn't lighten many rooms he walked into.

Cailan seemed to be thinking along similar lines, "Now we can smile and laugh without fear of being chided."

And laugh Fergus did at the king's remark.

Cailan gestured to two polished and well cushioned chairs. "However, Loghain is right your brother is sure to be capable of handling the affairs of Highever until you and your father's return." Cailan took his seat and was offered a third goblet which Cailan graciously accepted.

"Yes, my brothers always had a way with that sort of thing." Fergus took his seat, sitting across from his king and friend.

Before his brother's exile there had been popular gossip throughout Highever that it was Edmund not Fergus who was more deserving to be named the Heir of the Teyrnir. It had worried Fergus even though it shouldn't have, and it had been unfair of him to think that way of Edmund.

He was ashamed to admit it, but there was a small often unheard part of Fergus Cousland who had been relieved when Edmund had been exiled, which all but secured Fergus' claim as the heir to the Teyrnir. It was something that still haunted him.

"There's always been a Cousland in Highever." Fergus felt silly repeating the words his father had told him and Edmund so many times growing up, but he also felt proud. It was his family. The Couslands who have controlled Highever since the Towers Age, centuries have passed, but his family remained. Endured through the strife, and flourished with the triumphs.

"I like that," Cailan smiled.

Fergus returned his friend's smile. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

Cailan leaned forward in his chair. "Enough of this etiquette, let's forget I am king and you are the future Teyrn." He brought his fingers together. "We are just friends so let us drink and tell stories like we use to."

"I think I would like that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the chapter. 
> 
> Don't forget to drop a kudos or a comment.
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	6. Oren

Papa will come.

Oren knew it.

Uncle knew it too. He told Oren that Papa would be back from Ostagar with King Cailan and Teyrn Loghain to bring Howe to justice.

Papa will come.

Just repeating the words brought comfort and strength to Oren. 

Papa will come and fix everything. He stifled a yawn.

They had been walking days and most nights. 

He didn't mind being tired. It helped Oren forget. He wondered if that was why Uncle was pushing him so hard so that Oren could forget. Uncle was always keeping him busy even when they stopped walking. He allowed Oren to take care of Sarim or gather wood, prepare the fire, or their food.

Since he was so tired Oren found sleep easier to come by. He had less nightmares too. He was too tired to be scared. So he mostly dreamed of her, she was always smiling at him. She tousled his hair. She read to him. And she would always tell him how much she loved him.

He felt a squirmy feeling in his tummy at the thought of his mama.

"Oren?"

He looked up to see Uncle was further up the road then him. Sarim had been at Oren's side, but there was a wide gap between them and Uncle.

They had been traveling along this road for the past two days, and nights. They were headed into a village which Oren couldn't remember the name of. His Uncle had told him it was a risk, but that if they remained cautious then they would be able to slip through without being noticed.

"You need to stay with me."

"I know," Oren ducked is head, "I'm sorry, Un-"

"Papa," he corrected him.

"Papa," Oren repeated. It felt strange saying it to Uncle though, so he had made him practice it day and night. Oren wasn't allowed to call him Uncle anymore even when they were alone. It was always Papa. Even though his real Papa would soon come back to them, but for now Oren had to call Uncle, Papa.

It was all part of Uncle's plan. He devised a new story for them, a new life with new identities.

Oren had been initially excited at the prospect of being someone else. He remembered in his stories of Black Fox, when he and his group would change their identities to help infiltrate a stuffy noble's party to rob him and give the wealth back to those who needed it.

A part of him didn't want to be Oren Cousland anymore. Oren had lost his mother, his family, and his home. Oren Cousland was always sad or tired or both. He didn't want to wake up sobbing or shaking after one of his bad dreams. He wanted to be brave again. He wanted to be happy again.

However, changing their identities, giving them new names, and a new reason for traveling was more difficult then Oren had thought. He thought it would be fun and exciting, but it wasn't. He was confused. It was so hard keeping it altogether. He forgot his new name so often Uncle would call him and Oren wouldn't know who Uncle was referring to.

He hadn't thought it would be so difficult to shed Oren Cousland. As much as he wanted to slip out of it, he couldn't. His name may have changed, but Oren Cousland's emotions, fears, and memories remained. They were constantly clashing with the new character and identity Uncle had given him. It was so confusing, Oren's head hurt.

Uncle was also expecting him to lie. His mama and papa always taught him never to lie, that no good could come from it. Now, Uncle was telling him that he had to lie and that if Oren couldn't then their lives would be in danger.

Oren felt as if he was being pulled in two different directions. He wanted to listen to both his parents and to his Uncle, but he couldn't. He felt like he had to choose.

He was nervous. He was scared. He bit his lower lip not wanting it to tremble, not wanting to show his Uncle that he was having any difficulty with what was being asked of him. He had been giving him new responsibilities and Oren was desperate in not wanting to disappoint him.

Uncle was watching him closely. His green eyes could be very intimidating. He was frowning too. It didn't bring any comfort to Oren.

"Your mum?"

He was testing him, Oren realized, testing him again, he silently added. It seemed the only time his Uncle would talk to him now was when he wanted to test Oren on their new identities or when he was giving Oren his responsibilities for the night. It made him sad that his Uncle didn't want to talk to him about anything else anymore.

Oren was always silently hopeful that when his Uncle asked for him that this time his Uncle would tell him something else, anything else. A story, a joke, a compliment, but Oren hadn't received any of those from his Uncle in the past few days.

"She's a merchant in Highever," Oren didn't want to keep him waiting. Uncle told him that they shouldn't shy away from where they were from. Since the people looking for them were expecting them to say anywhere but Highever, to try to hide and distance themselves.

His Uncle brought his fingers through his beard. His faced remained unchanging. "What does she sell?"

Why can't you tell me a story, Uncle? Oren wanted to ask. Uncle used to tell him the best stories. "She sells wares from her home country."

His green eyes remained on him, unflinching. "Which is?"

"Antiva?" Uncle had told him that the most convincing lies were always rooted in the truth.

Uncle didn't seem impressed, a sigh escaped his lips. "Are you asking me or telling me?"

Oren didn't like making him mad or disappointed and he seemed to have done both. "I'm telling you."

Uncle stopped frowning; instead a small but proud smile emerged that instantly relieved Oren's fluttering tummy. He playfully tousled his hair. "Good, you can do this."

He couldn't help but return the smile, relishing the affection his Uncle was showering him with. It was a small glimpse of who Uncle had used to be before the attack.

Oren couldn't really remember his Uncle that much when he use to live in Orlais. He had a few memories of him. He knew his Uncle use to smile and laugh more. His Orlesian Aunt he remembered even less of, just that she was pretty and kind to Oren, giving him sweets and hugs.

One particular memory Oren had was when Uncle took him to a nearby stream by his home in Orlais and the two ended up swimming and playing into the night until his mum had to drag Oren out of the water. She scolded Uncle for letting Oren out so late, but papa had just laughed, and even mama couldn't stay angry with Uncle for too long.

He remembered how happy he had been when mother and father had told him that Uncle would be returning to Highever last year. Oren remembered that his parents weren't as happy as he was, and when he asked them why, it was mother who answered telling him that Edmund's wife, Oren's aunt had died.

When his Uncle did return to Highever, Oren had been so happy to see him, but his Uncle wasn't smiling or happy. He didn't pick Oren up, swing him in his arms or toss him in the air before catching him like he use to do. He hadn't tousled Oren's hair. He just nodded in Oren's direction and walked right past him.

Oren had never seen his Uncle look so sad, until the attack…

"We're almost there."

Oren blinked, looking to see Uncle had stood up and was looking at Oren strangely.

Not wanting to go through the questions again, Oren gave him a tiny nod.

It worked. Uncle patted his shoulder before saying. "My son can do this."

But I'm not your son! The worried voice in Oren wanted to shout, wanted to cry, but he didn't. Oren couldn't let him down. So he remained silent and thought up the words that gave him strength- Papa will come.

\------------------------

The inn was loud and crowded when they entered. Most of the tables were filled with men drinking. A bard was sitting on a stool by the fireplace, plucking at the strings of his lute and singing in a sweet voice. The bard's eyes watched them walk across the Inn while he continued to sing his song. When his eyes met Oren's, the bard only smiled and winked at him before turning away.

Oren tightened his grip on Uncle's hand. 

"What do ya need?" asked an old lady. She had grey hair, an unkind face, and a big mole on her chin.

"Room for the night," Uncle answered.

She turned her eyes towards Oren and it took all of his courage not to squirm under her intimidating stare. "What's your business here?"

"We're travelers," Uncle responded, beckoning Oren to stand in front of him where he placed his hands on his shoulders. "We're returning to Highever."

Oren silently watched the innkeeper purse her lips surveying his uncle, but he didn't flinch or waver he simply met her stare. It was the innkeeper who broke eye contact first with a shrug, "Sure I have a room if you have the coin."

"We do," he withdrew a handful of silvers from his coin purse. "We'd also appreciate a hot meal." He pushed a few copper pieces towards her.

She snatched them up, "Sure we got plenty of both." She eyed one of the silver pieces before turning back to them. "I didn't get your names."

"We didn't give you any," Uncle smiled. "I am Aedan." He squeezed Oren's shoulders. "And this is my boy, Matty."

Oren didn't know where Uncle had gotten his name, but Oren's name he knew was short for Mather. The famous Cousland who helped fight the werewolves with his wife Haelia. It was one of Oren's favorite stories and Uncle used to tell it the best before bedtime.

She seemed satisfied by their answer. "I'll have someone bring you some food and ale."

"Thank you," Uncle led Oren through the maze of tables and people who were drinking, laughing, and talking. Most were more than happy to ignore them but a few did turn their gaze towards them.

Oren wanted to flinch or fidget, or look away from their stares out of fear, but he couldn't. Uncle had told him that Matty had nothing to fear. He had done nothing wrong. We must act the part, he told Oren, if we are to be successful.

Matty might have nothing to fear, but what about Oren? He had everything to fear. They had killed his mama, and his family, and took his home. They were hunting him. How could he be Matty and pretend to be alright when he was really Oren?

He looked over towards Uncle who didn't seem to be struggling the same way Oren was. His expression loose, a smile on his lips. He had slipped into the role of Aedan as if it was as simple as putting on a new cloak. He didn't look to be dealing with any confusion. Uncle looked like he belonged here. He really looked like Aedan, the merchant from Highever.

"This is perfect," Uncle approved when they reached their table.

Oren didn't understand what was so perfect about it. It looked like a regular old round table just like all the others. The only difference was that this one was tucked in a corner. "What do you mean?"

"It gives us some privacy, Matty," Uncle was always playing the part of Papa. He tousled Oren's hair, but it wasn't with the same affection he had done earlier on the road. This time it seemed force, as if he was only doing it to play up his role as Oren's father. The realization made Oren's tummy clench.

Uncle remained oblivious to Oren's discomfort. "It also allows us to watch the door and make sure no one gets the jump on us." He took the seat with the back to the wall.

He felt a painful twinge in his tummy that almost caused Oren to wince as he remembered those stares from the bard and some of the other patrons. Were those the kind of people who wanted to jump on us? He wondered.

Oren was thankful when he felt Sarim's hulking mass curl up beneath his dangling feet. He gave the mabari a few tender pats on the head before turning back to Uncle whose eyes were taking in everything that was going on behind Oren. He wanted to see what was happening too, he turned to do so, but Uncle stopped him.

"Don't," he whispered, his smile remained on his lips, but Oren could see the tension in his face. "Stay looking at me, or Sarim."

Put out by Uncle's order, Oren still obeyed it, but at the moment he didn't want to look at him. So he kept his eyes down on the table, seeing that past customers had carved various words and images into the surface.

"Here you all are."

Oren's eyes looked up at the sight of the young, pretty lady who brought them their food. She was all smiles when she presented them with their meal. His nose picked up on the delicious scents which caused his mouth to water. Looking down to see their meal consisted of cooked chicken, with fresh bread, and a few apples.

"Thank you," Oren looked up from his plate to see she was smiling at him.

"Of course," she was pouring Uncle some ale.

Oren noticed her eyes were on Uncle, and her smile only seemed to grow when Uncle thanked her for the drink. He suddenly remembered grandpapa's words- so this is a wench.

They ate silently. The occasional noise coming from Sarim, whose soft whines were rewarded with bits of meat, but not too much. The chicken was greasy, seasoned, and delicious. It wasn't until Oren took a few greedy bites of the chicken did he realize how much he had grown sick of stale bread and salted pork.

"Can we stay here longer, Uncle?" Oren asked, licking his fingers after finishing up his chicken. He could get use to eating like this. He didn't realize his mistake until he looked up to see Uncle's gaze had sharpened. He looked around to see if anyone had picked up on Oren's slip.

"I'm sorry, Papa," Oren squeaked. Not wanting Uncle to be mad at him.

Before Uncle could correct him, their wench returned to their table. Smiling, as she gave Uncle a second cup of ale.

"This your son?"

"Yes, he is," Uncle answered proudly.

It was enough to make Oren smile.

"He's a handsome lad," she cooed, she brushed her fingers through Oren's hair, smiling as she did. Oren didn't mind, he liked it, she had a soft touch and did it the same way mama use to.

When she finished she turned back to Uncle leaning over to whisper something in his ear and he smiled at whatever she said but he shook his head when she finished. Her smile faltered, and she looked sad, but when she turned to see Oren looking at her, she smiled at him before she left their table.

Oren didn't like to see her sad. "What did she want?"

Uncle took a bite into his bread. He looked confused at Oren's question, "She….She," he swallowed the food in his mouth before continuing. "She wanted to see me later."

That made Oren happy. "Did you say yes?"

"No, I declined," he said, with a shrug before taking a deep sip from of his tankard

"Oh," Oren said, picking up the last few crumbs from his plate and offering them to Sarim who gladly took them. After gobbling it up, Sarim licked Oren's hand and fingers clean. It made him giggle.

"You all finished?" Uncle was already out of his seat and moving towards him.

Oren nodded, but before he could push his chair away from the table to stand up, Uncle wrapped his large arms around him, lifting Oren out of the seat effortlessly. Oren squeaked in surprise, but he smiled all the same. It had been a while since Uncle carried him like this.

His arms wrapped around Uncle's neck, and he buried his face in his shirt. He could pick up the rhythmic and soothing beating of Uncle's heart. Oren's feet dangling in the air, as Uncle carried him with ease across the room. He could hear voices from patrons, as they passed them, but couldn't make out what it was they were saying. So he focused on listening to Sarim's paws padding across the floor beside them.

Oren knew when they reached the room because Uncle had to jostle him in his arms. Oren stubbornly clung to him and was thankful when Uncle didn't try to make any attempt to put him down. Right now Oren didn't want to stand, he just wanted to stay in Uncle's arms. They made him feel safe.

He heard the creak of their door, but Oren kept his eyes closed. He didn't want to see the room they were spending the night in. This way he could pretend that they were back at Cousland Castle and that Uncle was carrying him back to his room after finishing on of the games they use to play. The memory made him smile. 

It was the first time he thought about home without wanting to cry.

He could feel Uncle bend over before gently releasing Oren from his grip, when Oren felt the soft mattress beneath him, he reluctantly let go. He opened his eyes to see Uncle's face hovering inches away from his. He was smiling down at Oren, and his green eyes were shimmering with warmth that Oren hadn't seen since before the attack.

"Get some sleep," he kissed Oren's forehead, before playfully tousling his hair. It brought a warm feeling to Oren's chest, settling his fluttering tummy.

Uncle dragged a chair from the corner and brought it to rest in front of the door. Oren caught the glint of steel on Uncle's lap and knew it to be the family sword.

"I know you don't sleep sitting up." Uncle caught him spying, but he didn't sound mad. He actually chuckled.

It made Oren giggle, "Sorry," he apologized sheepishly. 

"It's alright," Uncle replied. His words were as soft as a whisper. "I…I"

"Uncle?" Oren wasn't smiling anymore. Uncle's tone and stuttering was enough to stop that. He couldn't remember Uncle ever looking or sounding like that. Uncle was always brave and confident.

"It's n-nothing," Uncle sighed. "Try to get some sleep, Matty. We have a big day tomorrow."

"Oh." Oren said softly. He put his head against his pillow, and closed his eyes. He felt Sarim's hulking mass jump onto the bed, settling beside Oren, and resting his large head on Oren' legs. "Good night, boy."

He didn't want to think about Uncle. So Oren went back to the same words he recited every night. 

Papa will come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to drop a comment, it's always great to get feedback. 
> 
> Thanks for reading,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	7. Edmund

"Father!"

Bleeding and sobbing, Bryce Cousland, the Teyrn of Highever was leaning against a barrel, his hands pressed against a side wound. The blood smeared path along the floor of the larder showed that he had dragged himself to reach the spot. 

"Pup?" There was hope in his voice.

"I'm here, father," Edmund scrambled over to him. He blinked away tears as his eyes took in the grisly wound that his father had suffered. The nasty gash had cut deep through flesh, his father's hands were slick with blood. He recognized a fatal wound when he saw it. The revelation was painful enough for Edmund to choke back a sob.

"The others?" Bryce pushed the question through gritted teeth, pain flickered across his face.

"They're dead," Edmund bowed his head. He had failed them. Cousland Castle had been his to oversee and now, Oriana, his mother, Lady Landra, her son, and all the other loyal servants and guards of the Cousland family have perished within these halls.

"Grandpa?" Oren's voice was weak and soft. The heir to Highever was standing away from the father and son, his small hands gripped tightly on the fur around Sarim's neck. His eyes were red rim. His cheeks were tear stained and dry snot was under his nose. 

"Oren," Bryce tried to muster enough strength to look over Edmund' shoulder to see the boy, but the movement proved too stressful. He winced and cried out in pain.

"Don't move, father," Edmund was careful and gentle with him. He slowly positioned his father's head off of the barrel and onto Edmund's lap. He looked down into his father's blue eyes, swelling with tears. His teeth were blemished with blood, and a few red droplets had escaped his mouth and dribbled down his chin.

"Howe can't get away with this," even so close to death, Bryce Cousland's voice was authoritative and commanded strength.

"He won't," Edmund promised.

Those words brought a small, but brief smile onto his father's lips. "Until you find Fergus, you're all that Oren has, Edmund."

Edmund's eyes left his father's and searched for Oren. Finding his nephew still rooted to his spot just inside the larder, Sarim by his side. "I know, father."

"That is my son," Bryce said softly, pride laced his voice. He lifted his blood stained hand towards Edmund. "Take this." He opened his hands to show the Cousland signet ring. It had passed down to every Cousland Teyrn since the family first took the Teyrnir ages ago. It was the official and legitimate seal of the Cousland family.

He took the ring silently, pocketing it, before clasping his hands around his father's hand. The power and burden of the Cousland family was now in his possession. It was his responsibility to protect not just these priceless heirlooms of the Cousland family, but the rightful heir of Highever.

It was overwhelming.

"I-I can't do this."

"Of course you can," His father responded reassuringly. "I'm comforted knowing that when I depart this world that the best of myself and your mother reside in you."

There was a loud crash outside the larder. Howe's men must have had gotten loose and broken past the hasty fortifications that had been put up.  
"I-I…I-I," Edmund blinked, unmoving.

"Go, Pup," Bryce encouraged, desperation seeped into his tone. "You must flee. Howe cannot get you and Oren."

"I can't leave you." Edmund argued.

His father's face softened. "My time in this world has come. I've lived a good life, but you and Oren have full lives ahead of you." Tears came down his cheeks. "For the love you have for me, Pup, Go." His hand slipped out of Edmund's grasp. His blue eyes closed one last time. His voice was soft as a whisper.

"And remember, Pup, your mother and I will never truly leave you."

Edmund Cousland opened his eyes.

He was no longer in the larder at Cousland Castle. He had found himself back in the room he and Oren had rented for the night, miles away from Highever. Yet, the ghosts of his father and his family remained with him.

He had fallen asleep in his chair. He looked over to see Oren was still fast asleep. Sarim was on the bed, but his eyes were open. It seemed Sarim had sensed Edmund had fallen asleep and had taken up the mantle of watching over them. He pushed himself up, his back stiffened in protest. His body was sore from the odd angle he had been resting in from when he had fallen asleep.

There should always be a Cousland in Highever, these were father's words. This was why he wanted Edmund to stay behind to manage Cousland Castle while he and Fergus went south to Ostagar to battle the darkspawn.

Now, there were no Couslands in Highever. Howe had sought to that when he betrayed them and slaughtered their family. The Teyrn and Teyrna were dead. His good sister, Oriana was dead. Fergus was marching south, oblivious to what happened in Highever, and the dire threat Rendon Howe had suddenly become. And Edmund and Oren were on the run. Forced to flee from their ancestral home and hide in the lands their family has overseen for Ages.

Until they reached Fergus, the Cousland family rested on a former exile and an eight year boy.

Not a very comforting thought.

Edmund pulled out the signet ring his father had given him. He looked down at its circular design, its flat bezel, with the Cousland laurels emblazoned on it. It looked so simple and plain, but that was deceiving.

This was the seal of the Teyrn of Highever and Patriarch of the Cousland family. There was great power and even greater responsibility to be had with the ring. The authority of the Highever Teyrn and the Cousland family was resting in his hand. With this he could call on the freeholders who had sworn to serve the Teyrn and his family.

Yet, in the eyes of the law Edmund Cousland was not the Teyrn of Highever, it passed to Fergus and from Fergus onto his son, Oren. This ring wasn't Edmund's to use. To use it now would be unlawful, and an abuse of its power. With that thought, he pocketed the ring.

Edmund looked over at his sleeping nephew. He sighed. Remembering the words he had wanted to say to Oren, but he couldn't muster the courage to speak them.

I'm failing you, Oren.

The bitter truth made Edmund's stomach clench, but he could not refute it. He could see the loneliness in his nephew's eyes. He could sense the fear gnawing away within Oren, and he knew the memories and pain from the attack were still lingering in his nephew's mind, still haunting his dreams.

Sarim's sudden soft growling shattered Edmund's thoughts on his failures as he turned to the door.

Quietly sneaking closer, Edmund withdrew his sword from its sheath. He stopped when he noticed the door creak open. Thankfully, from his position he could not be seen. The door was obstructing him from view. He raised a hand to silence Sarim, who reluctantly obeyed.

The door opened enough for someone or something to slip through. It was a shadow, but Edmund remained where he stood until he saw the shadow's hand which was brandishing a dagger.

He took a deep breath to steady himself and then swung. The Cousland family sword sliced through flesh and bone severing the shadow's hand.

The shadow shouted in pain, but Edmund clapped his hand over the shadow's mouth in an attempt to muffle the noise. The shadow elbowed Edmund in the stomach, causing him to wince and drop his sword, as well as loosen his grip on the intruder, but the momentum worked against the shadow who tripped over its own feet and stumbled backwards.

Edmund saw his advantage. The shadow was already disarmed, and weakened from losing the hand. He unleashed a flurry of punches onto him, his fists connecting with the shadow's jaw and face that had the shadow yelping and reeling.

The fight was over before it really began when Edmund finished it with a swift kick to the shadow's stomach that dropped it to its knees, wheezing. To make his point, Edmund delivered one final punch that sent the intruder sprawling across the floor.

Edmund stepped towards the wounded intruder who was lying beneath the room's window. The emerging sunlight that crept into the room revealed the shadow to be the bard who had been performing last night.

His pretty face was marred by a broken nose, a few bruises, and a black eye. Blood was dripping from his nose and a few other cuts where Edmund's punches had landed. His bloody stump of where his hand had once been was resting on his chest staining his embroidered outfit.

Sarim leapt off of the bed, not giving the bard a moment to recover, landing on him and knocking the wind out of him before pinning him to the floor. Sarim's paws rested on the bard's shoulders; Sarim lowered his head before snarling.

The bard blanched at the ferocious mabari. He tried to jerk beneath Sarim but the war hound was too heavy.

Movement from the corner of his eye had Edmund turning away from the trapped bard to see his nephew had been woken up by the intrusion. Oren was sitting up and trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

"Whatsgoingon?" his nephew mumbled, still incoherent at the early hour and still being half asleep.

"Cover your eyes, Oren," Edmund ordered as he pulled out a dagger, "And your ears."

The bard chuckled. "I thought the boy already saw death?" A dark glint emerged in his eyes, who found some sick sort of strength or courage at frightening Oren. "I heard he saw his mommy die."

"U-Uncle," Oren whimpered, before pulling the blanket up over his face, but his eyes were still peaking over it.

"Everything is going to be alright, Oren," Edmund brought the dagger to the bard's throat, who was unable to move or resist due to Sarim's bulking mass on top of him. Already, at a disadvantage bloodied, bruised, and missing a hand the bard seemed to have accepted his fate.

Edmund looked over his shoulder to see Oren had finally listened to him. Satisfied, he turned back to the would-be assassin. He clapped his free hand over the bard's mouth before bringing the dagger across his throat.

He saw red. He felt the warm spray of blood splash across his face.

Sarim gave the bard one final sniff to make sure he was dead before the large mabari got off the body.

Edmund calmly walked over to the side of the bed, where a basin of water was kept on the side table. He could hear the hitch in his nephew's breathing. Oren was shaking underneath the blanket.

Not wanting to greet his nephew covered in blood, Edmund dipped his bloodied hands into the water, splashing some of the water to his face. The cool water did nothing to sate the growing hot fury in his belly. Seeing his nephew shaking in fear awoke something primal in him that he hadn't felt since the night Howe betrayed his family.

"Uncle?" Oren's terrified voice broke the silence that had fallen over the room.

The anger in him bubbled and churned at hearing the fear in his nephew's voice. Edmund touched Oren's shoulder, but his nephew flinched. "It's alright." He soothed his terrified nephew. "It's me."

That stopped Oren's shaking, and this time he didn't flinch or pull away when Edmund rested his hand on his shoulder.

"Can I look now?"

Edmund looked around the room to see the corpse beneath the window, and the trail of blood back to the door where the bard's severed hand was. "You don't want to."

"Oh."

"I need you to do something for me," Edmund knew he used the right choice of words and tone since Oren perked up.

"What is it?" He sounded eager and willing.

"I need you to lock the door behind me," Edmund noticed his nephew's disappointment, but he continued. "And I want you to promise me not to open the door to anyone except for me."

"B-But-"

"No, Oren," His voice was firm when he cut off his nephew's protest. There was no way he was going to allow Oren out of this room until he was fully confident that there were no other dangers waiting for them. He didn't want Oren to see any more violence and he definitely didn't want Oren to be harmed or captured.

"Alright," Oren relented. "I can do that."

"Good," Edmund felt a burst of pride in his nephew. He bent over and kissed Oren's forehead. "Don't get up until I tell you too."

Edmund walked back over to the bard's corpse grabbing him by the collar before he dragged him across the floor to the door. There he picked up the severed hand. He stuffed it in one of the bard's pockets. He then opened the door, peeking out to see that the hallway was empty.

That didn't comfort him.

He was sure that the bard wasn't working alone, and that the bard's assailants were most likely downstairs waiting.

They will not get us, Edmund silently vowed. He dragged the body out of the room. He didn't want Oren to see it. Sarim followed right behind him. Despite Sarim's love and loyalty to Oren, the mabari was imprinted to Edmund and would never allow him to be separated from Edmund if Sarim sensed he was in trouble or danger.

"Go ahead and lock the door now," Edmund tried to make his voice sound reassuring through the closed door. "Don't be afraid of the blood." He listened attentively to Oren's padding footsteps across the room before he heard the locking of the latch.

"Great job," he kept his voice upbeat as he praised his nephew. Again, he wanted to shield his nephew of the potential danger that was waiting Edmund and Sarim downstairs.

"I'll be back shortly, and remember what I told you."

He dragged the corpse through the hallway stopping when they reached the staircase. From there he could pick up the sound of other voices. He wasn't sure how many were there, but he knew that these were the other culprits in the bard's little group.

His suspicions were confirmed when he picked up on the conversation they were having downstairs.

"What's taking him so long?" One gruff voice demanded.

"He should be done already." A second one complained.

He had heard enough, Edmund silenced them when he kicked the bard's corpse down the stairs. He watched as the body thumped with a series of cracks and smacks down the stairs before it hit the ground floor.

"What the-?"

Sarim had followed the corpse down the stairs with Edmund a few steps behind his war hound. At the bottom of the stairs were three men who had gathered around the bard's corpse drawn in at the sound of their fallen comrade. Sarim leapt towards the closest, sinking his teeth into the legs of the man, the war hound dragged him to the ground screaming.

The other two men were Edmund's. Though armed, they were no match for him. These men were thugs, not soldiers. They were use to brawls, to unarmed opponents. They lacked courage, and conviction.

Edmund handled them with ease, he parried the first one's thrust leaving the man vulnerable to a slash which the Cousland sword delivered, slicing through the man's chest as steel cut through leather and bit deep into flesh. The man collapsed to the ground with a shout.

The other not wanting to make the same mistake his partner had made had become desperate in his strikes, wanting to stave Edmund off, who easily deflected and blocked the sloppy sword strikes.

Believing the fight had gone on long enough, Edmund feigned in and when the man took the bait and moved to block, Edmund's sword changed course slashing at the man's sword arm. He hissed in pain as he dropped the sword, and Edmund finished him off with a deep gash that cut the man from shoulder to abdomen.

Edmund caught movement from the corner of his eye. He turned to see it was the innkeeper. She was staring at him from behind her desk. She didn't look the least bit frightened at seeing three men die in her inn. Her arms were crossed over her chest. She didn't bother to hide her disdain towards him.

"You bloodied my Inn."

"I have a feeling you wouldn't have minded if it was my blood they spilled."

"It wasn't personal," She said defiantly, confirming her own involvement in the bard's scheme. "It was only business." She showed him a toothy grin, "And Howe paid better."

"I see," Edmund tried to stave the growing fury that was brewing within him. "Fair enough," He forced himself to smile. "I think it's only fair that I get my silver back."

She glared at him as if he was crazy to ask for his money back after she tried to not only fleece him, but kill him. "Fine," grumbling as she retrieved the silver he had paid her hours ago for a meal and a room.

"Glad to see we can still be civilized." Edmund picked up the silver pieces and slipped them back into his coin purse. "However, I have just one more thing to ask for."

"What is it?"

"Your life," The dagger slid deep between her ribs.

She gasped, her hands fumbled towards the wound, her eyes wide and disbelieving as she looked up at him.

"You were wrong," He pulled the dagger out watching as she fell to the ground. Her hands feebly pressed up against the fatal wound. "It was personal to me."

He was skilled enough with the dagger to know the wound will give the old bitch a slow, and very painful death. She'll be forced to lie in a pool of her own blood, endure agonizing pain, before death finally took her. She deserved this. She took their money with promise of food and shelter. She lied to them. She betrayed them. 

If Edmund Cousland had felt an ounce of mercy towards her, he would've ended her pain quickly, and cut her throat, but Edmund Cousland wasn't feeling merciful.

Sarim was waiting for him by the stairwell, leaving behind the squealing of the innkeeper. The two made their way up the steps to retrieve Oren. They had overstayed their welcome and it was time for them to hit the road before others came. It wasn't until he reached the top of the stairs did he hear a new voice.

"You can come out." It was the barmaid.

"No, I can't," was Oren's reply through the locked door.

"Why not, sweetie?"

"Papa told me not to come out until he says so."

Even in this dire and stressful situation Oren had been able to stay with their made up identities. He hadn't slipped their cover. He was still Matty, Aedan's son. It was enough to bring a brief, but proud smile to Edmund's lips. He silently vowed to praise Oren for his bravery and performance when they were out of this mess.

"I'm sure Papa wouldn't mind."

"He does mind actually," Edmund made his presence known. "Stay in there, Matty."

"Oh," the barmaid was blushing, looking flustered, "I…I didn't mean-"

She was good, Edmund had to give her credit. She had played her role to perfection, and if Edmund wasn't a suspicious man he would've believed her.

"You can drop the act."

In a heartbeat she did. She was no longer blushing. She no longer looked flummoxed. In the blink of an eye, the innocent barmaid was no more, replaced by the deadly and very skilled bard.

The same eyes that had once looked at him with an adorable and disarming charm were now shimmering with a dark guile. Her lips that once innocently whispered for a quick and harmless tumble were now curved into a smirk.

She rested a hand on her hip, appraising him. "How long have you known?"

"I've always suspected," He shrugged. "When your family is butchered in their own home by their friend it's hard to trust anyone." He gestured to her, "but I must say it was well orchestrated." He offered her a mirthless smile. "I mean planting the bard to draw my suspicion." He crossed his arms over his chest, "Was he even a bard?"

"I was training him." She didn't look the least bit concerned that he had discovered her true purpose.

"Well, the training didn't work," He rested his hand on the pommel of the Cousland family sword. "Since he's dead," He knew he hit a mark when he noticed the dark flash in her eyes, but she was quick to recover.

"It was a calculated risk," she slipped back into the role of ruthless bard.

"All the while my real enemy was the blushing barmaid," Edmund couldn't help but crack a small smile at the well thought out plan that she had executed to try to ensnare him and Oren.

"Tell me truly was that your original plan when you asked me to join you in your room during dinner?" His smile remained, "promising me pleasure while in fact you planned on killing me."

"I assure you," She stood a bit straighter in a blatant attempt to advertise her ample chest. "There would've been pleasure."

Edmund couldn't help but laugh at her brazen display. She certainly didn't lack confidence. He gestured to the stairwell. "How about you just go, and we forget you ever tried to kill me."

She smiled triumphantly, running a hand through her dark hair. She believed her looks had successfully seduced him into letting her go. She took a few steps, winking as she passed him. It was her pride that would be her downfall. Her arrogance clouded her perception and because of it she never saw it coming.

He grabbed her hand, surprised, but skilled she tried to spin out of his grip, but that's what he was expecting. His other hand was holding a dagger which he used to cut a long gash across her midsection.

She yelped in pain as she crumpled to the ground. Shocked, she looked up at him, "but…but…"

"I was pretending." He crouched beside her, the dagger in hand. "To be an honorable knight, but I am not that anymore." He brought the dagger to her throat. Seeing her bleeding and helpless, Edmund Cousland felt nothing towards her.

There was no remorse. There was no pity. There was just a hunger for vengeance that could only be sated with her death.

"You didn't honestly think you'd get away for betraying me." He didn't allow her a chance to answer as cut her throat cleanly.

"Uncle?" Oren's voice was soft, and muffled through the closed door.

Knowing time was of the essence, Edmund no longer had the luxury of shielding Oren from blood and death.

"You can come on out."

The door creaked open, before a blur rushed towards him. Edmund scooped up his nephew into his arms and hugged him fiercely. "I'm so proud of you, Oren."

"Really?" There was disbelief in his nephew's voice.

It was enough to make Edmund's stomach twinge as he was reminded of his recent failures when it came to his nephew. 

He replied with a bright smile that his nephew couldn't miss. "Of course I am!" He assured Oren as he ran a hand through his nephew's messy hair. "Don't you ever doubt it." He pulled Oren away so that he could see his nephew's face.

"I won't," Oren was smiling, but his eyes finally noticed the bard's corpse just outside their door. "Was she bad?"

"Yes, she was," Edmund realized there was no point lying to him. "We need to get going."

They were able to pack quickly and quietly. Edmund had experienced enough of the inn's hospitality for one visit. When they finished, Edmund grabbed his nephew's hand and led them down the stairs.

What he saw waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs caused him to immediately tense. "Shit."

Oren gasped either because of the curse or more likely due to the fact that there were now suddenly two dozen armed men standing in the inn's main room. Unlike the thugs who Edmund had just killed, these men were wearing proper chainmail armor, and each one had the same sigil emblazoned on the shields. The sigil was of two towering trees upon a green field.

"Leaving so soon, Edmund?" A plump man stepped into the room. He was flanked by two armored men who Edmund assumed to be knights. The plump man was carrying a mace and a shield, and his armor was of silverite instead of chainmail like the others. The sigil covered his entire chest plate.

"Bann Loren," Edmund stiffly bowed his head while tightening his grip on Oren's hand.

"So you know who I am." He approached them, not stopping until he was directly in front of Edmund. Even though Loren was a foot shorter than him, he had a way of making himself appear to have the more dominating presence. It didn't hurt that his men had them surrounded.

"I do."

"Then you know why I'm here," Loren studied him closely, his hand rested on the handle of his mace. "I want to know what happened to my wife and son."


	8. Fergus

"The poor sods."

Fergus Cousland silently agreed with his lieutenant's assessment. He looked up at the three bodies that had been strung up, eerily swaying in the breeze.

The armor was caked in mud and blood, but there was no mistake that these men were once soldiers within the Ferelden army. Crows settled on their shoulders picking at their faces. All three corpses were without eyes; much of the flesh in their faces had been pecked and torn off by the crows.

He didn't know what was more disconcerting that these were the third set of bodies they came across today, or that he had grown so tolerant of the smell and sight of these gruesome corpses.

When he had seen the first bodies strung up like this on the first day of their expedition he had ordered them to be taken down and properly buried. However, he was overruled by the burly veteran Grey Warden who was accompanying them, a dwarf who told them to just call him Brosca.

Before Brosca agreed to go with them on this scouting party he made Fergus agree to two conditions. Firstly, no women were allowed to go with them. Secondly, it would be he who got final say, and not Fergus. The second one was a bit more difficult to agree to, but in the end Fergus relented, realizing the necessity of having a Grey Warden with them as they ventured deep into the infested Korcari Wilds

"If you stop to bury them," Brosca had said. "Then the next people who come by will have to bury our corpses with them."

"These men deserve a proper burial." Fergus had argued.

"Those corpses don't need nothing," Brosca had growled. "They're dead, and I hope you harden yourself, lad, because they won't be the last bodies we see."

He was right about that, Fergus silently admitted. They had been out for three days and had come across several bodies, but no darkspawn.

It was unsettling. They had been told the Wilds were infested with darkspawn, but so far they had seen none. He wasn't itching for a fight. They were a small scouting party, no more than ten men. They'd be no match for any band of darkspawn. They relied on small numbers to cover ground faster to try to get the darkspawn's position before reporting back to Ostagar.

The sooner the better if you ask me, Fergus thought. He hadn't liked this assignment one bit. If he had been given this assignment by any other man, he would've seen it as a slight. He wanted to return to Ostagar as soon as possible, and had already decided if they didn't find any darkspawn in the next day that they would return to Ostagar.

"I don't get it," that was Lt. Finley. "I thought these Wilds were supposed to be swarming with darkspawn." He made a show of looking around the dense woods before turning back to Fergus and shrugging. "So where are they?"

"Underground," The curt dwarf brushed past Fergus without so much of an apology or a backwards glance.

He had become use to the Grey Warden. Fergus no longer took offense to Brosca's uncouth behavior and his genuine disregard to authority. Brosca treated everyone with that same level of disrespect.

"Oh," Finley didn't seem too pleased by that. He tentatively looked to the ground as if half expecting darkspawn hands to claw up from the earth to grab him and pull him underground.

Fergus was thankful to have Lieutenant Finley along with him. He considered the knight his right hand man, and had also been recently appointed into the commanding ranks of the Horns of Highever.

His family took the best knights, soldiers, archers, and militiamen and molded them into an elite fighting force. Though they were called the Horns of Highever, the loyalties of the men were without question to the Cousland family.

An eager knight named Jenkins appeared beside Fergus. His head bowed and hands clasped in front of him, giving the corpses the only recognition Fergus' scouting party could afford-a brief prayer.

"We need to keep moving," Brosca growled. The dwarf was standing below the swaying corpses, not looking the least bit bothered at having their feet dangling above his head. "It's like you surfacers ain't ever seen a dead body before." He glared at Fergus and the rest of the men.

"Perish the thought when we actually spot a darkspawn," Brosca continued his tirade. "You all may just soil your trousers in fright." He spat. "Maybe that'll drive the darkspawn off." He shook his head in disgust before walking off.

"You think the Grey Wardens recruited him because of his charming personality?" asked Gary dryly. He was an archer from Highever, but a thief before that. When he had been caught Teyrn Cousland gave him a choice lose a hand or pick up a sword and fight for the Cousland family. Gary, a boy then, had chosen the sword, but had gravitated towards the bow and had risen to the rank of master bowmen.

"I bet ya it was the Grey Wardens secret rituals that turned him into a sourpuss," countered the knight, who was dubbed the bull. Strong and tall, his red steel helm had bull horns protruding from it. The name was a natural fit.

"That's why they keep 'em secret, don't want ya to know that you become grumpy louts once you join."

Finley and Gary snickered at that, and even Fergus cracked a smile.

"How long are we supposed to be out here, Lord Cousland?" the question came from Jenkins, the youngest of the men, earnest and eager to fight for king and country. Fresh off his knighting, the boy was chomping at the bit to prove his worth and new title, but so far all he proved capable of doing was asking Fergus questions.

"Until we're done scouting," was Fergus' answer. He excused himself from his men so that he could catch up with Brosca, believing that the dwarf may have been a bit too harsh on the men just now. The Warden may be in charge of this expedition, but these were his men, and Fergus wasn't about to allow them to get berated because the Grey Warden was in one of his moods.

You didn't earn the loyalty of the men by chastising and insulting them. It seemed clear that the Grey Wardens forgot to instill any sort of leadership training into these men

"That was uncalled for," Fergus spoke up when he came within earshot of the Grey Warden.

Brosca was crouched down beside a tree. "I've seen brontos move faster than those men."

"How you treat your bronto isn't my business," Fergus retorted, "But these are my men, and I take insult when they are berated for no good reason."

"No good reason?" Brosca scoffed, glancing over his shoulder at Fergus. "And here I thought it was only the dwarven nobles who were stuffy and foolish."

Fergus ignored the insult. He knew enough about dwarven history to know that he was dealing with a casteless dwarf. The tattoo that covered the left side of Brosca's cheek and enveloped his left eye signaled that this was a dwarf that was rejected by the Stone.

"You do the men no good by belittling them just because it suits you."

"And you do them no good by babying them, Lord Cousland," Brosca was scratching the bark before picking up thin pieces of the wood and bringing it to his nose. He wrinkled his nose before spitting.

Despite his annoyance at the Grey Warden, Fergus noticed something was wrong. "What is it?"

"The darkspawn are near." Brosca then abruptly lowered his breeches and relieved himself on the very same tree. Laughing as he pissed, he was quick to add. "Well, here's what I think of those nasty Spawn!"

Fergus wasn't sure what was more unsettling the fact that the darkspawn were near or that he was standing inches away from a pissing dwarf. Not to mention that this same dwarf was their darkspawn expert and leader of their scouting party.

The Maker must have a sense of humor, Fergus mused.

"What about the darkspawn?" Fergus pressed at the threat looming over them.

"They're close," Brosca answered, after he finished. "And a lot of 'em, I'm thinking at least fifteen or twenty."

That wasn't good news, Fergus reflected. That would mean the darkspawn outnumbered them two to one. The King had wanted them to scout not to engage the darkspawn in battle. The small numbers were supposed to help them cover more ground faster.

"You got all that from that?" He pointed to the bark of the tree.

"Of course not," Brosca sounded amused, "I have my Grey Warden ways of sensing them." He hooked a thumb towards the tree, "that just proves the spawn have been here recently."

Fergus ignored the recent wetness on the tree from Brosca to see what the dwarf was pointing at. Looking closer, he could see the unseemly dark growths sprouting along the trunk of the tree. "That's the taint."

"Sure is," Brosca didn't seem the least bit bothered, "figure this… ugh, what do you surfacers call this thing again?"

"A tree," Fergus put in, unsure if he should be amused or not at Brosca for not knowing what a tree was.

"Yeah, that's it, a tree," Brosca agreed, "It doesn't have more than a few days till the contamination spreads and turns it into a nasty ruin like everything else the darkspawn touch."

Fergus took in the growing tree before him, its branches long and thick, leaves of various colors at the ends of their reach like fingers, flapping and swaying in the breeze. Fergus could see a bird's nest further up in the higher branches as well as squirrels scrambling from one branch to another.

To know that this tree would be dead and marred by the darkspawn contamination made his stomach clench. Because he knew that this tree could just be the beginning, if the darkspawn could not be stopped here at Ostagar, then the darkspawn would spread. And the thought of the forests and swamps in the Coastlands to be blemished by the Taint was unwelcoming for the future Teyrn of Highever.

Not to mention the impact it would have on his beloved Ferelden, how many people would be affected by this taint? How many infected? Fergus had heard stories about ghouls, people who were inflicted by the darkspawn taint, the lucky ones got quick deaths, and the unlucky ones suffered grizzlier fates.

"You humans are spoiled," Brosca interrupted his musings. The dwarf's dark eyes were on Fergus. "You only care about the darkspawn when they're on the surface, but it's the dwarves who have to fight them every day."

Fair point, Fergus agreed, but he didn't want to admit it to the Grey Warden. "How long have you been a Grey Warden?"

"A few months," Brosca answered, "Duncan came to Orzammar looking for recruits. He probably wanted warriors from the finest dwarven houses instead he got me a thief and a murderer."

Fergus wasn't quite sure how to respond to that, so he chose to remain a different topic. "Why did you agree to come with us then?"

"It was this or go with Alistair and the fresh recruits," a flicker of what looked to be uncertainty across the dwarf's rough features. "And I didn't want to go with 'em. They had a female recruit."

"You don't like fighting with women?" Fergus asked, remembering Brosca's demand when he agreed to join them-no women were allowed to come.

"Not against darkspawn," Brosca shook his head. "The damn spawn take a special and perverted interest in women." He then held up his hands. "I shan't say any more, except what they do to the women they capture. It's a fate worse than death."

\------------------------------------

They didn't stop again until it was time to make camp. Thankfully, Brosca had been able to lead them around the darkspawn band. Fergus had already decided this would be their last night in the Wilds. They had done their duty. They scouted the Wilds and could now report back to Ostagar.

Dinner hadn't been a feast just some salted pork and stale bread. No fires had been allowed. Brosca told them it would only attract trouble.

Waiting for his watch to start, Fergus went inside his tent and laid down on his bedroll, resting his head on the makeshift pillow of his cloak. Feeling the lumps dig into his back from the forest floor, he wished he was back in Highever, back in his room in Cousland castle, on his soft bed with a fire roaring and, Oriana lying beside him.

He was hoping when he saw father again at Ostagar, that he'd have a letter from Oriana for him. That was her way, and Fergus loved her for it. Always reminding him how much she cared for him, how proud she was, how much she loved him.

Recalling one time when he was in his study going through some tedious tax reports, he came across a letter she must have slipped it in the pile just to remind him how much she loved him. Fergus always kept the letter with him. It hadn't been the first she had written him or the last, but it had had a certain quality to it that made him want to carry it with him wherever he went.

With his return to Ostagar, Fergus was sure he'd be given a more important command for the pending battle with the darkspawn, a command that signaled and befitted the Heir of Highever. Secretly, he wanted something that would give him a chance to prove his merit. To prove that he was capable of becoming the next Teyrn of Highever.

Fergus knew the whispers within the army that some of the men favored his brother. He had a certain rapport with the men as well as respect that came with Edmund, who had been considered one of the better swordsmen in Ferelden before his exile.

He was use to these whispers. Fergus had heard the same ones back in Highever's court, but instead of them being men-at-arms or knights they were freeholders and banns who supported Edmund, not Fergus as the next Teyrn.

Sometimes Fergus wondered what mistakes had he made to have so many not wanting him to lead them? Oriana had told him not to take it personal, but how could he not? They wanted to pass Fergus over, the eldest and rightful heir to Highever for his younger brother. He had thought the whispers would quiet down when Edmund was exiled and Oren was born, both had happened around the same time. For a time they did, but his brother's return from Orlais last spring had only reignited them.

In a way they got what they wanted all be it briefly when their father left Edmund in charge of the Teyrnir with him and Fergus marching off to war. He felt no animosity towards his brother, Fergus knew that Edmund never encouraged them and often did his best to discourage them especially since his return from Orlais.

"Lord Cousland?"

"Hmm?" Fergus asked recognizing Finley's voice.

"It's your shift."

Already, Fergus wanted to moan, but he restrained himself. Instead, he pushed himself out of his lumpy bedroll and crawled out of his tent, grabbing his sword and shield as he did.

The dark sky was beginning to lighten; crimson light was slowly seeping in over the horizon.

He noticed that he wasn't the only one up. He spotted the Grey Warden Brosca sitting outside his tent and sharpening his daggers. "Couldn't sleep?"

Brosca looked up from his work. "We Grey Wardens don't have pleasant dreams."

"Oh," Fergus said, watching as Brosca continued sharpening his dagger. "We're heading back to Ostagar when the sun comes up."

"Ending the mission so soon?" Brosca teased. "Is it because there was no glory to be found?"

Fergus stiffened at the slight, but he was too tired to engage the Grey Warden in a long conversation. He opened his mouth to speak, but noticed the flicker of unease come across Brosca's face.

The dwarf leapt to his feet, dropping his whetstone and holding his daggers. He looked over his shoulder at Fergus. "The darkspawn are here!"

Pouring out of the thick bushes in front of them were the hideous monsters known as darkspawn. It was the first time Fergus had ever seen one and the sight and stench of them up close was enough to rile his stomach.

"Darkspawn!" Fergus shouted, sliding his arm through his shield strap. "Everyone up!" He tightened his grip on his sword. "We're under attack!"

Fergus raised his shield just as a hurlock slashed him with a rusty serrated sword. It growled showing its pointy teeth as it swung again at him; Fergus deftly swatted the strike away with his shield. Seeing his opening he stabbed the darkspawn, his sword cutting through the rusty patchwork of armor and into flesh. The darkspawn growled in pain and anger, but Fergus silenced it by cleaving the head from its body in his follow up swing.

He heard screams. Turning around, Fergus watched in horror as Jenkins was pulled out of his tent by a handful of darkspawn, pawing and punching at them, but more darkspawn came before silencing him as they gutted him, innards and blood slid out of Jenkins' belly, with the darkspawn fighting one another for the warmest bits of flesh to feast on.

It stirred Fergus' stomach. Enough to make him want to vomit, never seeing such savagery before.

"Rally to me!" Brosca was shouting. "Don't try to run!" the Grey Warden had a growing pile of darkspawn bodies at his feet, resembling a whirlwind of blades as he sliced and hacked his way through charging darkspawn.

Two of the men didn't heed Brosca's warning. Terrified at the charging darkspawn they chose to run, but they didn't even leave the encampment before they were shot down by arrows. The two men were still alive when the darkspawn started eating them.

Fergus was about to join Brosca when he felt a sharp pain in his side. He looked down to see an arrow jutting out between his ribs. He winced, as his fingers touched the shaft of the arrow as it dug deeper into his flesh.

No, not like this, Fergus was thinking. He didn't want to die like this.

An armored hurlock charged him thinking he was easy prey, but Fergus Cousland was not. He raised his sword to parry the blow, wincing at the pain that flared around the wound. His movements were jerky; pain was his only constant companion.

It was the reminder of Oren that fueled Fergus past his pain to swat the hurlock away with his shield. His son's laughter that had him slash the darkspawn from hip to shoulder.

The men, his men were not faring any better. The Bull was dealing a killing blow to one hurlock when two genlocks appeared, concealed by shadows, the smaller darkspawn peppered the Bull with stabs before he fell to his knees. One of the genlocks cut the Bull's head off in one fluid, scissor like cut.

This can't be happening, Fergus thought. They were supposed to be returning to Ostagar. The only story they were going to tell was of their boredom. Now they were being cut down left and right.

A sudden pang of pain shot through him with such force he cried out. A second arrow had struck him, protruding just under his right armpit. He felt the rush of blood seeping out of the wound, and streaming down his side. He didn't have the strength to stand, falling to his knees, he dropped his shield. Silently watching as Gary tried to grapple with a genlock with his bow before falling to a hurlock who came up behind him.

Fergus slid a hand to the wound, his fingers slick with his own blood. He had seen enough of battles to recognize a fatal wound when he saw one.

I'm sorry, Oriana, he felt the hot prickly tears in his eyes. Falling onto his side, careful not to have the arrows sticking out of him hit the ground knowing that would only cause more pain and discomfort. Lying on his side, helpless and dying, he watched Brosca silenced by an arrow.

"Lord Cousland," rasped Finley. He was injured and bleeding, crawling on all fours towards him. "I…I'm sorry." He reached a hand towards Fergus, but the last of his strength gave out and he collapsed on his stomach. He was dead.

Fergus felt the encroaching darkness. 

So this was death, Fergus mused. The pain ebbed and numbness filled him.

Before blackness took him, Fergus' last thoughts were of the wife and son he had left behind.


	9. Howe

"You can't do this to me!" The prisoner stamped his feet. "I'm the Arl of Denerim!"

"No, you're not," Howe stepped into view. "I am."

It had been an easy enough task. When Howe arrived to Denerim, some of her citizens had rioted against the former Arl's son. Most of the soldiers had left with the Arl, who only left behind a small garrison of soldiers for his son to manage. Under duress against the mob, Howe had graciously offered to help secure the situation, which he did.

However, when the gates opened to allow him and his sizable force onto the grounds, he couldn't resist a chance to alter the leadership. It was clear the previous Arl didn't have the skills needed to properly do his duty. So Howe had taken the title, the holdings, and the power that went with it. 

Standing in a small and cramped cell was Vaughn Kendall. It still hadn't sunk in the nobleman's mind that he had lost his power and authority. That he was now only a prisoner in his family's dungeon.

"I let you into my castle!"

"That was your mistake."

"Y-you promised to help me," The fear in his voice signaled that reality was slowly settling in.

"But I did help you," Howe argued, "And now I can help the people of Denerim far better than you ever could."

"The King will hear about this."

"Yes, he will," Howe assured him. "That you were orchestrating a coup against your Queen but your own mob turned against you."

"What?" He blanched. "That's not true!"

"What do you say, Chase?" Howe turned to his captain. "Is that how it happened?"

"It did, Your Lordship," he stepped forward.

"There you have it," Howe smiled at the defeated look on the prisoner's face.

"P-Please," he grabbed at the bars. "We can negotiate. I'll do anything you want!"

And there it is, Howe mused, the final act before acceptance-desperation. With his prisoner finally accepting his new role it was time for Howe to speed things along. He had a new Arling to secure.

"I have no doubt about that," Howe agreed.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

"You were in my way." Howe motioned to the guards. "Denerim, Highever, I deserved these titles and these riches for my service during the Rebellion. Instead I got nothing. I was ignored, and left to rot in my Arling while lesser men then I got my rightful rewards."

The guards moved to the cell to unlock the door and restrain the prisoner.

"Do you know the best way to get a measure of a man, Vaughn?"

The prisoner shook his head.

"It's pain."

The prisoner's eyes widened, "N-No, no, p-please!" He was swinging his hands to try to stop the guards from grabbing him. But there was nowhere for him to run, the guards subdued him easily enough. One grabbed him roughly by the arms while the other punched him in the stomach to stop himself from resisting. They escorted Vaughn towards the rack to prepare him for interrogation. After a few interrogations, Howe knew he wouldn't even need to put Vaughn in a cell or in chains. By that point, Vaughn would be broken and beaten, his pain and his fears will serve as his shackles.

"Only through pain can you truly understand a person," Howe watched Vaughn getting strapped onto the rack.

The prisoner continued to sob and squirm while his hands and legs were being bound, "p-please, m-mercy!" he was whimpering. "I'll give you the Arling!" he sobbed, "P-Please don't do this!"

Howe ignored his worthless pleas. "You see its pain that shatters the masks people put up. It breaks through the lies. Only through pain can truth be discovered." The guards finished strapping Vaughn to the rack stepping away from the sobbing prisoner.

"And by the end of our talks, I'll know you better than your own parents," Howe finished, gesturing to his esteemed torturer to prepare the interrogation.

"You came into this world, screaming and bloody," Howe relished this moment. The beginning of the end for the prisoner, this was when the first walls that they put up were tested and then shattered under the influence of pain.

"And you will leave this world screaming and bloody."

He then noticed the wetness that stained the front of his prisoner's pants. The scent of urine soon followed.

Pathetic, Howe shook his head in disgust. Denerim was better off without this maggot of a man to oversee them. Howe would bring strength, discipline and a healthy dose of fear to the citizens of Denerim. Only then would they understand true order.

"Your Lordship?" a timid elf messenger appeared.

"What is it?" Howe snapped, he hated being interrupted during his interrogations. He halted the torturer from beginning.

"It's Her Majesty, Milord," The elf replied meekly. "She has requested your presence at the Royal Palace."

This was to be expected, Howe knew the Queen would want to speak with him ever since he had decided to go to Denerim. She may have questions for him, but Howe had the only answer that mattered: his army.

She may be the Queen, but it was Howe who held the true power at the moment. Power he couldn't abuse, not if his plans were going to work. For now he still needed to play the loyal royalist and servant of the Crown.

"Very well," Howe sighed, "Inform Her Majesty I will be there shortly."

"What about him, Your Lordship?" asked the torturer, referring to Vaughn Kendall who was still crying and trembling on the rack.

"Send for the Reaver," His instructions got the desired effect: Vaughn looked terrified, whimpering and even Howe's own guards couldn't hide their own fear at the mention of one of Howe's most trusted but feared servants.

\-----------------------------

"Your Majesty." Howe bowed low when he appeared before the presence of the Queen of Ferelden.

"Arl Howe."

He ignored the insult. He was no longer an Arl, but the Teyrn of Highever. Instead he raised his head and offered her a smile. They were not the only ones in the room. The Queen's Seneschal was also there, standing behind the Queen's chair.

"Please sit down," she gestured to a chair across from her.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," he graciously accepted. "What do I owe the pleasure of this summons?"

"We were curious of your arrival to Denerim, Lord Howe."

"I'm at the service of your Majesty," He answered smoothly.

"That is very kind of you."

"However," that was the Seneschal. "Were not your orders from the King to go to Ostagar with your forces?"

Who is he to speak to me? Howe inwardly fumed. This lowly steward thinking he can address Howe as an equal. They were not equals. He commanded the Coastlands, all of Northern Ferelden now had to swear him fealty.

He forced his smile to remain. He couldn't falter and succumb to his rightful fury. He needed to remain civil.

"I hate to admit it," he lofted a heavy sigh, "But I had to ignore my king's orders in order to save Ferelden."

"And how is that?" The seneschal pressed forward.

"It came to my attention that one of my dear friends was in league with the Orlesians," Howe answered forlornly. "It is a sad day I assure you when we must turn on friends, but it had to be done."

"Traitors?"

"Yes, your Majesty," he paused, as if trying to gather the strength to move forward. "This is a sensitive subject to us all I fear, due to who the traitors were."

"I appreciate your concern, Lord Howe," she said graciously, "So please take your time."

"You are too kind, your Majesty," Howe bowed his head. "I became aware of the Couslands secret talks with the Orlesians. They were inclined to take Orlesian gold in return they gave them vital and sensitive information."

"Bold accusations," The Seneschal was frowning. "The Couslands have always been friends to Ferelden, and strong supporters of the king."

The old man was just upset, because I had to do his job, Howe silently criticized. It was the Seneschal's job to dispense the king's justice, but Luwin was getting older, and it seemed he no longer had the stomach needed to hand out true justice.

"Now, now, Luwin," Anora chided her Seneschal. "Arl Howe would not have acted without proper deliberation and thought into what he was doing when he made his move on the Couslands."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Howe met the Queen's cool stare. He wasn't fooled by the Queen's polite demeanor or her kind words. He knew the seneschal was serving as her mouthpiece to vent her own anger at what Howe had done at Highever. She just wasn't brave enough or in a strong enough position to voice them herself. 

"If the Couslands were traitors then why not arrest them in the name of the King and Queen?"

"They wouldn't heed your authority, Your Majesty," Howe addressed his answer to the Queen, not the Seneschal. 

"I see," she brought her hands together.

"I appreciate your understanding. I know this cannot be easy for you to hear due to your closeness with the Couslands."

"My closeness?" A slight crack formed in her polite façade. It provided a glimpse of the boiling anger the Queen was trying to hide from Howe. 

"You were taken in by the Teyrn and Teyrna at Highever for those two years, I'm sure you saw them as a second family." He drummed his fingers along the table. "I imagine that's how they fooled us. We were so close to them, that we couldn't see their true natures until it was too late."

"You saw their true nature," The Queen pointed out, a touch of chillness in her tone. 

"I pride myself on vigilance, Your Majesty." He took some satisfaction at being able to so easily irritate her. Didn't she realize how easy she was to manipulate? Her closeness to the Couslands was her undoing. 

Her cold eyes were on him, but he didn't flinch.

She had nothing. No proof or evidence to go against Howe's story. She had to believe him, knowing if she moved against him then the Coastlands would rise up in his defense and she was powerless against his army. She may be Queen, but at the moment, they both knew who held the true power in this room.

"Very well, Lord Howe," she acquiesced. "You are free to go, I will have my people gather information and the facts of what happened that night in Highever."

He lowered his head out of protocol not respect to the Queen in front of him. He pushed himself out of his chair and stood up. "I trust they will find my story to be quite compelling."

"We'll also have you hand over your evidence, Lord Howe," Seneschal Luwin spoke up. "We'd like to look at the proof that had you act so quickly and fervently."

"Then you shall have it," he obliged.

"One more thing," the Queen stopped him from leaving. "I've been told there were some problems at the Arl of Denerim's estate last night."

"Yes, a tragic story," Howe paused, "It seems some of Denerim's citizens reacted strongly to accusations leveled against Arl Vaughan."

"Yes, I can imagine," Anora frowned, "And the Arl?"

"The mob tore him to pieces." It was a convenient lie. There was no need to dredge him up from the dungeons. Besides, soon enough he would be dead after Howe made full use of him.

"It was a gruesome sight, Your Majesty."

"And you've taken up residence there?" she followed up.

"Do you have any objections?"

"None at all," she assured him.

"Very good," Howe smiled. "I look forward to seeing you again, Your Majesty." He turned to go, "May Andraste watch over your father and husband in the south."

And when they're gone, I will look after you...

\--------------------------

The Teyrn of Highever and Arl of Denerim didn't have the luxury to vent his frustrations at how he was treated by the Queen until he was back at the estate. She invited him over to interrogate him like he was some sort of common prisoner, refusing to address him as the new Teyrn of Highever.

The audacity! She may be queen, but she had no army to command. She foolishly thought she had the authority and power, what she had was a misconception! Howe would remind her soon enough, who now held the true power in Ferelden.

Howe had moved his personal effects into the old guard captain's chambers. It was not as spacious or lavish as other chambers in the estate but it did suit Howe's purpose.

He stopped his pacing to look at the door that led him directly into the bowels of the dungeon. The proximity of the dungeons to his chamber was too convenient to ignore. He knew that as the new Arl of Denerim he would be quite busy in the coming days assessing loyalties and putting others to his special brand of questioning.

Pain was the great equalizer. It was felt by everyone: rich and poor, young and old, noble and commoners alike. None could ignore its harshness, and all desired not to feel its unbias touch. 

Right now Vaughan Kendall was having his mettle measured and tested. And soon Howe would come down himself to ask his questions and understand the true character Vaughan was. He couldn't help but wonder when he might get the chance to better know the Queen. He was sure after his interrogation of her, he'd know her better than her precious husband and father ever could.

"These are such lovely quarters."

The sudden voice broke Howe from his musings. He turned to see a stranger standing in his doorway. The man was dressed in an odd garment that more resembled robes that mages wore. He was bald, with a dark and thick goatee, and dark eyes that were currently sweeping around Howe's room.

"How did you get in here?" Howe demanded. He silently vowed to punish the incompetence of his guards for allowing this stranger to walk so brazenly through the estate, my estate.

"Through the front gate," the stranger smiled, stepping into the room like he was invited in.

The nerve of this man, Howe reached for his axe, but the stranger made no move to protect himself or arm himself with any concealed weapon he may hold beneath his loose robes.

He held his arms up in a gesture of submission before bowing low, "I come as a friend, Your Lordship."

Howe stayed his hand, knowing that if he didn't like this conversation that he could disarm the man efficiently and quickly. "Oh?"

"Yes," the stranger didn't seem perturbed at Howe's hand resting on his axe handle. He looked perfectly calm as he graciously took a seat in a nearby chair. "We are very similar, you and I."

"I am the Teyrn of Highever, I hold all of Northern Ferelden," sneered Howe.

"And if you want to keep it, you will listen to me," the stranger warned him.

Howe understood a threat when he heard one. Already frustrated about his meeting with the queen, his curiosity couldn't contain his fury, he had axe in hand and was ready to bring it down on this stranger, but it stopped in mid-swing.

His arm was suddenly paralyzed. His fingers were stiff and unmoving as the axe's blade hovered inches away from the stranger's throat.

The stranger just smiled. "That is not wise."

"What are you?" Howe hissed, trying to regain control of his arm, but it was unmoving to his silent command.

"A powerful ally if you allow me to be."

Magic, Howe knew at once how this stranger had been able to walk into his estate, and how he was able to keep control of Howe's arm. This man was a mage, an apostate, no doubt. They had their uses, Howe silently begrudged, remembering using one on his assault against the Couslands. She had been a mercenary and sadly had been killed during the attack.

"I'm listening."

The stranger's smile widened, "excellent."

Suddenly, Howe felt movement in his arm again. The mage had cancelled whatever spell he had put on his arm. Howe lowered his arm, but his grip on the handle of his axe remained tight. 

"I represent a group of talented individuals who wish to assist you in your efforts to purge the city of those." He paused to bring his hands together to rest on his lap. "Whose thinking may not align to yours."

Howe noticed the scabs and scars on the stranger's hand, some looked fresh, while others looked half healed. "And what do you want out of this?"

"Some of the guilty," flashing Howe a predator like smile, "For our own uses."

"Then, I think we can come to an agreement."


	10. Edmund

"Thank you for seeing me."

Where else am I suppose to go? Edmund wanted to ask Bann Loren. He and his nephew Oren have been Loren's guest for more than a week, but this was only their second night at Caer Oswin. Most of their time in Loren's company had been spent on the road.

He told Edmund and Oren that they were his honored guests, and they've been treated with every courtesy since Loren and his men picked Edmund and Oren up at that inn so many days ago, but Edmund remained suspicious. He had to be, after what Howe did to his family. Howe too had been a guest of his family, and returned their hospitality with betrayal and death.

So here he was, standing in his host's study. Loren could be found behind his desk, sifting through piles of vellum. Across one wall on display was where Loren's family sigil hung proudly. Over the fireplace was a family portrait of Loren with his wife, Lady Landra and his son and heir, Dairren. They were just two of the many who perished that night.

A large table anchored the room with more than a dozen chairs tucked in. His estate wasn't as large as Cousland castle so his study also was his meeting room where he talked and met with the various freeholders and knights under him. Several maps were sprawled out on top of the table. Walking by the table to reach Loren, Edmund noticed some of the maps were local detailing of Loren's holdings and properties, while some of the other maps out were of the Bannorn, as well as the Coastlands, and a map of Ferelden.

Unsure how to respond, Edmund just nodded. The two hadn't spoken much outside of their meals. And even then their conversations were quick and casual. Edmund couldn't blame the Bann, he's sure every time Loren sees either Edmund or Oren he's reminded of the wife and son he lost.

The longest conversation the two men shared was their first one where Edmund retold his and Oren's escape from their home. Loren hadn't tried to hide his tears or his misery at the part where Edmund spoke of discovering the bodies of Lady Landra and Dairren in the guest chambers.

Edmund had silently respected Loren's unabashed display of grief for his lost loved ones. He was braver then Edmund, who hadn't dared show any sign of it in front of Oren in fear of upsetting or scaring his nephew.

At the time, Edmund had tried to persuade Loren to let him finish the story another time, but the Bann refused he wanted to hear all of it, and Edmund had reluctantly obliged.

"I must say I was surprised with you, Edmund." Loren was a short man, as well as plump around the middle, but the man's arms signaled that he still had strength in them and was more than capable of wielding the mace he carried. His red hair was kept short, and his brown eyes were watching Edmund closely for a reaction.

Confused, Edmund wasn't quite sure how to respond to the Bann's remarks, "Pardon, my lord?"

"When I showed up at the Inn, I was expecting a half crazed warrior," Loren explained. "Ready to fight and die, but instead you surrender without as much as a whimper."

"It was prudent to surrender," Edmund defended his actions.

"I was half expecting you to try to commandeer my men and lead us on a march to Highever to try to reclaim your family's home." The Bann's tone conveyed his approval of such an idea.

"That would have been unwise." He was tempted, so tempted, but there was more to his life than vengeance. He had Oren to think about.

"I suppose," Loren leaned back in his chair, "But I never thought you would surrender so willingly."

Edmund wasn't sure if the words were intended to be insulting or not. "If I thought our lives were in danger I wouldn't have."

"Ah," that seemed to amuse Loren. "So you do not see me as a threat?"

"I see all men as threats." It was the final curse Howe had put on Edmund that fateful night. His ability to trust had come easy but now he saw enemies everywhere, imaginary or real. His faith in people and his willingness to trust others had died alongside his parents that night.

"A wise perception," Loren agreed.

Was this what he wanted to talk about? Edmund mused, to speak his disappointment at their first encounter. To tell Edmund that he had been expecting a fierce warrior but instead all he got was a tired, broken man.

"I asked to see you because there is much we need to discuss," Loren must have sensed Edmund's waning patience.

"We?" He frowned. The only we for Edmund was him and Oren.

That got a smile out of Loren. "We are allies, Lord Cousland."

"Is that so?" He crossed his arms over his chest.

"It is," Loren confirmed, standing up. "That night Howe unknowingly forced an alliance sealed by blood." He walked over to the fireplace. "It cannot be undone by promises or coin." He pointed to his family portrait. "The night he butchered our families Howe made us allies."

Trust no one, a small voice warned in the back of his head, but even Edmund's suspicions of Loren were fading. In fairness, they had never been strong to begin with. It was hard to suspect that a man would ever work for someone who was responsible for killing his wife and son.

Loren took Edmund's warring silence as permission to continue. "That night a pact was written by the blood of our families. It is our duty to punish those responsible."

"Retribution is a fragile foundation for trust."

He turned away from the portrait and towards Edmund. "Is it?" He scratched the graying stubble along his jaw line. "I cannot think of a stronger foundation."

"What if we view retribution differently?" Edmund challenged, he wasn't sure why he was, but his suspicious side was provoking him. He wanted to test Loren. He needed to know the Bann's goals for this proposed alliance. "Our vengeful hearts will turn on each other to seek what we believe to be our just acts of revenge."

"There is only one fate for Howe and that is death." Loren walked back over to his desk, "However that will be no small feat if the latest gossip out of Denerim is to be believed."

"Gossip?" Edmund repeated. Until he visited that inn, he had been actively shunning the rest of the world in an effort to shield Oren and himself from the dangers that were lurking and waiting for them. Part of the reason why he had decided to go to that village was on the hopes of getting some useful information especially any rumors from the south.

"Howe has claimed the Arling of Denerim."

Impossible, Edmund wanted to shout, but he was too surprised to speak. He was struck silent at the thought of Howe being allowed into the capital city of Ferelden without so much as a punishment for his actions against Edmund's family. Not only was Howe not punished, but now he had another title, collecting more land and power. 

Surely, Anora would have done something. Her love for him may have dissipated, but her love for his mother, and father had always been strong. Yet, she did nothing to the man who murdered them. Edmund could feel the hot anger churning and seething within him.

No, he tried to stem his anger. He tried to see reason. He tried to see hope. He needed to see hope. He couldn't believe that Anora would willingly allow Howe to stay a free man. There has to be a reason. The words and rationality helped to temper his anger.

"This means that Howe now controls Northern Ferelden." This couldn't be happening.

"Yes, he does," Loren sighed. "He has formed a near impenetrable hold on the north to attack any of them would require feeling the brunt of Howe's terrible power."

Edmund moved to the table where the maps were sprawled out. Looking at the map of Ferelden, his eyes drifted over to the land that Howe now controlled. All of the territory east of Lake Calenhad and north of the North Road to the Waking Sea now belonged to Rendon Howe. Through Highever and Amaranthine he held the Coastlands in an iron grip. With the addition of Denerim, Edmund wasn't sure there was another man in the country stronger than Howe.

"Wait," Edmund's eyes traveled south to Ostagar. "What about the King? Teyrn Loghain." What about my brother and Highever's forces? He silently added.

"That was the other news I had received from Denerim."

Loren's tone made Edmund's stomach painfully clench. This cannot be good.

"Ostagar was a disastrous defeat." Loren's voice was flat as he continued, "The king is dead. Teyrn Loghain has sent word across the country of the defeat and his return to Denerim." He cleared his throat. "In the message he also reported your brother's death."

He felt his knees buckle and Edmund had to grab the edge of the table to stop himself from falling, instead he slid into one of the chairs. His hands were shaking.

You weren't supposed to die, Fergus, Edmund blinked back tears. You were suppose to come back to save Oren and me. He slid a hand over his eyes feeling the warm tears begin to trickle down his cheeks. Not recognizing the anguish cry that escaped his lips. He felt his shoulders shake, as the sobs wracked his body.

The death of Fergus undid him. His strength waned and his walls completely shattered. He found himself being swept up in all the emotions he had tried to bury since the attack. Witnessing his parents' deaths, watching his family home go up in flames, having his life ripped from him…

"I'm sorry, Edmund," Loren's voiced was thick with empathy.

"What am I to do?" Edmund found himself asking. He instantly regretted voicing the question out loud, feeling embarrassed at how clueless he sounded. He was supposed to be Oren's pillar, his strength.

Oh Oren, the reminder of his nephew caused Edmund to slam his fist into the table. He now had to tell his nephew his father was dead. That he wouldn't be coming to save them the way they envisioned. It seemed a cruel joke for his nephew. Oren didn't need an uncle. He needed his father.

Loren had been silent, allowing Edmund to grieve uninterrupted. He didn't try to comfort him with empty words or gestures, he stayed silent. 

After a few steady breaths, Edmund regained his composure. He wiped away the tears with the back of his sleeve, scrubbing his cheeks to remove any remnants of his emotional distress.

It was over, he told himself. It's behind me. He now needed to move forward and do everything he could for Oren.

"We must spread the word," Edmund said. "Others must know that Oren and I live."

He thought about his Uncle Leonas, the Arl of South Reach. Surely, his Uncle would come to them once he found out what happened at Highever.

"It's not words you need," Loren countered, standing across from him. "If you want Ferelden to know that you live than you must fight!"

"Fight?" Edmund wanted to scoff, but he didn't. "How? I have no men."

"But I do," Loren corrected. "I do not have the strength to directly challenge Howe." He tapped his finger on a particular portion of the Bannorn just east of Loren's lands. "But I may have an opportunity for you."

"What?"

"A scouting party of Howe supporters looking for you," Loren explained, "If you were to engage them, if you were to beat them. The news would spread through the Bannorn of your survival, of your victory. And soon all of Ferelden will know that you live and you mean to reclaim Highever."

"It would only be a small battle," Edmund pointed out, "what good could that do us?"

"All it takes is a spark to start a blaze." Loren rebutted. "If word spread of not just you living, but of your victory, much of the Bannorn and the freeholders within the Coastlands would flock to your banner."

The plan had merits, Edmund had to agree. The rewards were great and the risks seemed low. He had no doubt that if a battle took place in the Bannorn between his forces and Howe that the news would spread quickly. The Bannorn was notorious for its capability of carrying news especially gossip across its breadth very quickly.

"We still need an army," Edmund observed. The skirmish may gain them some support, but it would also draw Howe's attention to them. They didn't have the strength to repel his numbers if he chose to bring his full might down upon them.

"We may have one," Loren pointed to the eastern portion of Ferelden. "Your brother supposedly died in an ambush, but the Highever forces are relatively unscathed. In fact they are marching right now under Teyrn Loghain back to Denerim, and if your Uncle joins with the strength of South Reach behind him..."

"We'd have our army." Edmund finished, a rare smile came to his lips. The forces of Highever would march for Edmund not Howe if they knew he still lived. The Couslands had earned fierce loyalty from their subjects throughout their reign.

"Exactly," Loren matched his smile.

The smile didn't last, as Edmund thought of the snag in the plan. "I can't lead forces." He shook his head. How could he be so selfish? How could he be so forgetful?

"What about Oren?"

"Your nephew can stay with me," Loren assured him.

"I…I don't know," Edmund wasn't sure about leaving his nephew behind even in Loren's care.

"If you do not fight then Howe has already won," Loren argued. "If you want your life back then you must fight for it!"

"I need time," Edmund pushed himself out his seat. "I need to think about this."

This was happening all too fast. This morning he and Oren were talking about when they would leave Caer Oswin. Now he and Loren were talking about Edmund leading a rebellion in his nephew's name. The King was dead. His brother was dead and the darkspawn were still a threat in the south.

There was also Teyrn Loghain. He survived Ostagar, maybe, with the strength of his army he would be able to punish Howe where Anora could not. Then there would be no need for any battles to be fought.

How could Edmund have been so dumb in forgetting about the Hero of River Dane? Surely, Loghain would see justice is done and that Howe was rightfully punished for his crimes. Then Edmund and Oren could return to Highever.

"Very well," Loren acquiesced, "but time is against you, and soon this opportunity will be beyond our reach."

"I understand," Edmund made his way to the door, "But for now you must excuse me, I need to tell my nephew that his father now too is dead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when I started this story, World of Thedas Volume 2 hadn't been released, so we knew little of Bryce and Eleanor Cousland. Wanting to fill those gaps for this story I made Eleanor a Bryland, and sister of the sitting Arl of South Reach, Leonas Bryland. This has since been proven entirely false with the new information they released about Bryce and Eleanor. 
> 
> However, in this story since the change I made was intricate to the story and tangled up in a few threads, it didn't seem smart to try to undo it. So even though it is entirely wrong, Eleanor in this story will remain a Bryland. Sorry for that confusion, and I hope you understand. 
> 
>  
> 
> Don't forget to drop a comment to let me know what you think.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for your time.


	11. Anora

She didn't belong here. Not after everything she did.

No, she corrected herself. It was all the things she didn't do. That was why she felt so uneasy. Despite all the good memories she had of this place, they were now somewhat blemished.

The Queen felt like a trespasser. She had visited this place many times, and they were always there to greet her. Now, the estate was practically deserted, save for a few servants and guards who the Queen had selected personally to make sure the estate didn't fall into disarray. However, the servants were tasked to not just clean, but to preserve the Cousland family legacy and their history. Highever may have been lost with many of the Cousland priceless heirlooms destroyed or stolen. A few remained here including a few tomes and portraits, and Anora would ensure they stayed preserved and protected. 

Anora wouldn't allow the estate to fall into Howe's hands so she chose guards loyal to her to stand vigilant to make sure he wouldn't seize this property for himself. He may have declared himself the new Teyrn of Highever, but she would not allow him this estate. His mere presence would only soil the memory of the Cousland family.

They deserved better.

The ache was still there. She missed them. Bryce and Eleanor Cousland meant so much to her. Now, that they were gone, she was only beginning to realize how much they had meant. She missed their wise council. She missed their calming presence. They're unwavering support to her. They were two of the very small number of people who Anora trusted unconditionally.

This small act of preserving and protecting their estate in Denerim was all she could do.

Pathetic, she chastised herself. She was the Queen of Ferelden, and yet she was unable to properly punish Rendon Howe for his foul acts against the Cousland family. He had an army and with it, he remained beyond even her reach. At the moment all Anora could muster were the palace guard and a regiment of Gwaren soldiers her father had left behind. She couldn't even call on the city guard, by the law they served the Arl of Denerim, and not technically the Royal Family. It was an oversight that Anora believed needed to be fixed.

She stepped into the study half expecting to be greeted by Bryce and Eleanor, like the countless times before. The Teyrn would give her a friendly smile with a few kind and charming words while his wife, the Teyrna would embrace Anora like she was her daughter.

Instead she was greeted by silence, and ghosts. The servants had started a fire in the hearth, but other than that the room for the moment looked relatively untouched. The desks of the Teyrn and Teyrna faced the two high windows that were on either side of the fireplace to allow plenty of sunlight to brighten up the room. Above the fireplace, on the mantle was the bow that Eleanor had used during the Rebellion and above that was a family portrait.

It was an older portrait. Fergus and Edmund were younger, the former on the cusp of manhood, looking at Edmund she realized he looked just as he did when she first came to live in Highever all those years ago. He was handsome with his confident smile, which looked playful as he stood shoulder to shoulder with his older brother. Behind the Cousland boys stood the Teyrn and Teyrna, the former had his hand on Fergus' shoulder, while the latter had hers on Edmund's. The parents' eyes shimmered with pride and affection at their two children.

I have failed you, she thought numbly. Looking up into the faces of those who she considered her second family and now three of them were dead while the fourth was on the run. She bowed her head, not wanting to look at those she disappointed. She couldn't meet their eyes.

It was all too much for her to take.

She backed away.

I don't belong here, she realized. I shouldn't be allowed here.

"Your Majesty?"

Startled by the sudden voice that interrupted her musings, she regained her composure before turning around to greet the familiar voice. She knew at once something was wrong when she took in Luwin's uneasy stance and nervous expression.

"What are you doing here?"

"Your Majesty," he bowed his head. "We need to talk."

"What is it, Luwin?" She asked, taking in his nervousness, she thought that the news couldn't be good. Her heart instinctively going to the conclusion that something had happened to her father, or to Edmund and Oren. "Has something happened?"

The Seneschal looked around the room. "Can we talk?"

A part of Anora wanted to leave this room and estate. Yet, seeing Luwin's state she realized that whatever he wanted to talk about had to be important for him to personally come to see her. She also knew that by all accounts it was probably safer to discuss this sensitive information here, since she was surrounded by servants and guards whose loyalty to her could not be questioned.

"Very well," she acquiesced, taking a seat on the same sofa that she and Eleanor had always sat on during her visits to the estate. They always sat close so that the Teyrna could fondly hold Anora's hand like a proud mother, giving the her grip an encouraging squeeze or a soothing pat when the two would talk about life's often difficult situations.

It was on this sofa that Anora had confided to Eleanor upon discovering Cailan's infidelity. It was Eleanor who comforted her through the confusion and ache that had swelled at the news of her husband's liaisons. It was here where Anora confessed her fears of being barren and unable to provide Cailan a rightful Theirin heir.

Enough, she clamped down on the flood of memories that were swelling within. She couldn't afford to become distracted. Anora gestured for her faithful seneschal to take a seat across from her.

His expression remained troubled as he brought his fidgeting hands to rest in his lap. "We have found Edmund and Oren."

"Truly?" Anora asked pleasantly surprised at this bit of good news.

"They are with Bann Loren."

That surprised her, she knew he was one of the stronger Banns in the Bannorn specifically the western portion, but Loren's reputation did him no favors. It was known that he was loose with his allegiances. Surely, Edmund would have known about the Bann's unfavorable reputation: So why had he gone with him? She found herself wondering.

Luwin seemed to sense her confusion. "Your Majesty, when Howe attacked Cousland Castle and killed the Couslands there were other important casualties."

"Others?" Anora had been so shocked and grief-stricken at the death of Bryce and Eleanor that she hadn't thought about the others who had perished that night.

"Yes," Luwin revealed, "Lady Landra and her son, Dairren."

Anora recognized those names-Loren's wife and son. Now, the thought of him allying with Edmund didn't seem so risky. Loren commanded a good number of knights, militia, and men-at-arms. He was an older man whose fighting days seemed behind him, but if he allowed Edmund to use them…

No, it wouldn't be a problem. She wouldn't allow that scenario to play out. There was no need for it.

This couldn't be a problem.

Her father was returning and he was going to set things right. With the strength of Gwaren and Highever behind her father, Howe would finally be punished. Highever would be returned to Edmund and Oren.

This nightmare could finally end. There would be no civil war. They could then focus all of their energy and strength in thwarting this darkspawn threat once and for all.

It was the reminder of her father's return to the city that calmed her. Hearing about the disastrous defeat at Ostagar and the death of her husband and Fereldan's King had only added to the pain that Anora was already feeling due to the loss of Eleanor and Bryce.

The grief hadn't overwhelmed her like it says in the stories when a wife lost her husband. She mourned him, but her world hadn't shattered with him. It had dented, it had been shaken, but it could be repaired. She'd miss him, but she would move forward. She had to. Ferelden still needed her.

"Your Majesty?" Luwin broached through her musings.

"Hmm?" she asked, looking to see her seneschal was still uneasy. "Is there anything else?"

"Rendon Howe has left the city."

"That is not surprising," she replied. He had probably taken his army and headed back to his Arling in hopes of rallying his supporters and preparing himself for the fight to come. He must have known he wouldn't be safe in Denerim with her father's pending return.

To think that justice was coming closer towards Howe for the heinous acts he committed against the Couslands was enough to stem some of the guilt that had been eating her up inside. 

"It is said he is not returning to Vigil's Keep," Luwin informed her.

"What?" she asked, furrowing her brows. "Where would he be going? Amaranthine?"

"No, your Majesty," Luwin sighed, further highlighting the concern that was etched in his features, "It is said he went to treat with your father."

"That's not possible," she shook her head. She hadn't expected the bold move. The risk didn't seem to play into how she perceived Howe's endgame. She was sure he would return to his Arling, return to where his support was strong, and try to hold out in an attempt to avoid the rightful justice that was coming for him.

This move to see her father was not made by someone who feared for his life or the consequences from his actions. It was made by someone who was confident that an agreement could be reached.

What could Howe possibly say that could convince her father to side with him?

"Your father needs Howe's men, your Majesty," Luwin tried to defend her father's actions. "There is unrest in the Bannorn. The darkspawn threat only grows in the south."

"No," She didn't want to hear it. This couldn't be happening.

All this time she had never seen Howe as a threat. He was a nuisance, nothing more. A pest at the present, but insignificant in the grand scheme, but now if he had successfully treated with her father; he was a greater danger then Anora could ever have imagined.

"Is that all?" she asked, but judging by the Seneschal's countenance she was sure there was something, and it wasn't good.

"No, there is one more thing," Luwin cleared his throat. "It seems that Teyrn Loghain got into a heated argument with Arl Bryland during their return march to Denerim."

"What?" Anora failed at hiding her surprise. This was the first she had heard about this. "When did this happen?"

"Days ago," Luwin scratched his graying goatee. "But I only received the letter today."

Anora understood the importance of this argument and the ramifications that could be felt throughout Ferelden. On the outside she tried to retain a calm demeanor, but on the inside the news of her father arguing with the Arl of South Reach troubled her deeply.

"What happened?" She couldn't jump to conclusions, but she couldn't stop herself from thinking on what Luwin had just told her about Howe going to treat with her father…

"Arl Bryland brought up his complaints on Arl Howe," Luwin explained. "The Arl was furious at what Howe had done at Highever and demanded justice."

The implications of what happened next hit Anora hard. No, please father. She wanted to be wrong, so very wrong.

"Your father dismissed Bryland's complaints." Luwin seemed to sense her despondence giving her a sympathetic look. "Claiming Leonas was acting out on old grudges."

"Arl Bryland left with the strength of South Reach," The Seneschal paused in his report. "The forces of Highever left with him too."

She now perfectly understood why Luwin wanted to meet with her before her father arrived. This news was devastating. Arl Bryland wouldn't have left her father if he believed Loghain would punish Howe. No, he left with the Highever forces because they had realized her father wasn't going to.

Anora felt numb. She needed to return to the Palace. She needed to try to salvage this situation. Surely, she could have a messenger reach Arl Bryland before he acted brashly. To have him know that she wanted Howe punished just as much as he did. This can be fixed.

"Your Majesty, I fear we are on the cusp of civil war."

\----------------------------

"What have you done, Father?"

It was the question she had wanted to ask him ever since his return to Denerim. She found him in his private study in the Royal Palace. He was thankfully alone. Anora didn't want to have this conversation with an audience. She needed to voice her growing concerns with some of his most recent choices.

He looked up from the table. He lofted a sigh, looking tired and annoyed as if it was beneath him to inform the Queen of Ferelden about the decisions he was making.

"Only what is necessary."

"Necessary?" Anora was taken aback by not just her father's answer, but the sincere confidence in his tone, "Necessary for what?"

"To keep you on the throne."

She stepped closer to see her father had sprawled out his old maps of Ferelden. Unsure, how to respond to her father's answer she stayed quiet. She knew the hard truth in his words. The rumors she had already begun to hear when Cailan was alive, the unrest with the nobility.

"Did you think that your detractors were just going to stay silent and remain in the shadows now that the King is dead?" The scorn in his voice caught her off guard.

"I am the Queen," she didn't know what else to say. Anora knew it sounded weak and foolish, but it was the truth. She was still the Queen of Ferelden. She wouldn't say it out loud, but deep down she knew her father was right. Her power was slipping. Many of Fereldan's nobles would ignore her authority now that Cailan was dead. To them she was nothing but a commoner masquerading as one of them.

He gave her an incredulous look. "Come Anora, you're smarter than that," he chided. "Have you forgotten the whispers?"

Commoner, barren, these were the first that came to her before she stopped that line of thinking. "I haven't forgotten."

"Then you should have expected that these same people will move boldly to try to remove you from power," a hint of disappointment in his tone.

She didn't like it, but she could see truth in her father's reasoning. It did make sense. She didn't want to lose her title as Queen. She had sacrificed so much to achieve it. To only lose it now and to be left with nothing that was an outcome Anora could not accept.

"These men are stuck in the past," Loghain clicked his tongue in annoyance. "They care more about their ancestors then their progeny." He tightened his grip of the table's edge. "We're not all given that kind of luxury."

These were words that Anora had often heard from her father growing up. He would talk about how commoners had a better understanding on how to move forward and to make Ferelden stronger than any nobleman. Unlike nobles, commoners couldn't afford to look backwards.

The past had nothing to offer them. It was the future they sought. It was the hope for change, the chance to alter fate, the willingness to try to take risks. They weren't satisfied with the status quo, they always sought improvements. That was the outlook Ferelden needed, her father would always say.

Loghain tapped his finger on the Redcliffe Arling portion of the map. "Eamon had been marshalling his forces and supporters, but I put a stop to that."

"What did you do?" She shouldn't have been surprised by Eamon's response. He always had been a very vocal opponent to her marriage with Cailan. There had even been whispered rumors that he had been seeking an Orlesian bride for Cailan, and even fainter whispers that he was still seeking one before Ostagar.

"The problem has been resolved for now," he answered vaguely, but she didn't miss the glint in his eyes. "His forces have scattered and his position has been severely weakened."

She nodded, but despite her father's reassurances there was still some uneasiness in her stomach at how he resolved the situation. She would speak to Luwin and have him find out about Redcliffe and Eamon.

"Are you satisfied, Anora?" There was a waning restraint in his voice. It was clear that he wasn't pleased with his choices being so thoroughly questioned and scrutinized by her.

Anora had suspected this reaction from her father. She knew him well enough to know that this conversation was never going to be easy or comfortable for either of them.

"What of the Couslands?" No matter how much truth she saw in her father's logic, there was no excuse he could give that would allow her to accept what Howe did to them.

She could still remember seeing Howe riding side by side with her father when he returned to Denerim. It had taken all of her discipline and strength to remain composed and civil around him when she greeted her father. As well as to tolerate his increasing presence in the Royal Palace. He had taken to following her father around like a stray mabari pup.

"How can you side with Howe after what he did?"

"A hard decision," Loghain agreed, pinching the bridge of his nose, "but a necessary one if we are to control the unruly Bannorn."

"So Edmund and Oren must be killed for our alliance with Howe?" Anora was aware of how sharp she sounded and the disapproving tone in her voice, but she didn't care.

He stiffened. "What would you have me do?"

"Return Highever to them." It was the simplest and most ideal solution. How could he not see it?

"You would have me declare war on Amaranthine for the favor of a boy?" His civil tone cracked, warning her that it was not wise to continue.

"The rightful heir of Highever," she corrected him.

"We are at war, Anora," he explained. "We need the strongest allies if we're to secure your reign, your claim to the throne."

"Not like this," Anora didn't want her reign to be secured on the bodies of Bryce and Eleanor, built on the ashes of Cousland Castle. She couldn't stomach that legacy.

"And what about the forces of South Reach and Highever?" She threw back at him. 

He sent her a withering look. "Those forces will return to us," he said, annoyance seeping into his tone. "Once they taste defeat under the leadership of that boy they will scurry over each other to come back to us to plead for forgiveness and swear fealty."

She was fairly certain that boy that her father was referring to was Edmund, "and what of their fates?" Seeing her father's stony look, she clarified, "Edmund and Oren?"

"That isn't important now," he dismissed, waving his hand. "The only thing that is important is that with Howe's forces we can secure your claim to the throne. The Bannorn will fall in line, Anora. You must trust me. I will deal with the darkspawn threat."

I want to trust you, father, but she was wise enough to know not to speak of her doubts out loud.

"Very well," the words tasted sour in her mouth, but the last thing she could afford was to alienate her most ardent and powerful supporter. She still needed him to keep her as Queen, to control her armies, and to keep her safe.

This wasn't over, Anora silently vowed. 

She was determined to make Howe pay for what he did. For now she needed to play the supportive daughter and formidable Queen to the public.

In private she would do everything in her power to make sure Highever was restored to the Couslands. She didn't want to betray her father, but neither could she betray Bryce and Eleanor. She was certain given time that she could persuade her father to turn on Howe. She just needed to be patient and wait for the opportunity to present itself and when it did, she'd strike without hesitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my take on Anora during the Fereldan Civil war with a few new AU wrinkles added in. I hope you find it believable.
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	12. Kylon

Robert Kylon never thought that he'd face an individual worse than Vaughan Kendall. A spoiled nobleman who daily threatened the people that Kylon swore to protect. He touted his power and used his privilege birth for his own selfish means. He was a predator constantly attacking the weakest within the city-the elves.

For so long Kylon had dreaded the day when the Arling officially passed from Urien to Vaughan, worried for the well being of his city and her people. Never one to directly oppose the future Arl of Denerim, Kylon had found ways to try to protect the elves who were all but left defenseless and vulnerable under the current system. He took his vows to the people more seriously than the ones he made to the Arl of Denerim.

However, Robert's fears and concerns about his beloved city under Vaughan's leadership had all but disappeared at the surprising, but welcoming news that Vaughan Kendall had been killed. He did not mourn the death of Vaughan Kendall. He had felt no remorse, or pity when he had been told that the heir to the Arling had been ripped to shreds by a mob. Robert actually found it fitting, but he made sure to keep that particular thought to himself.

Now, Kylon was asked to take those same vows again, but it was not to swear fealty and allegiance to Arl Urien's son and heir-Vaughan, but to someone else-Rendon Howe. His first impressions of the new Arl weren't exactly glowing. Especially given the new instructions that Howe had given the city guard, their new top priorities were to be vigilant for sympathizers to the Grey Wardens and the Cousland family.

At first he thought this was some jest. The city of Denerim was being flooded with scared refugees who needed the protection and support of the city guard, but according to their new Arl these people should be forgotten and ignored in pursuit of Grey Wardens and Cousland sympathizers.

Robert Kylon didn't like these new orders one bit. Rendon Howe wanted to use the city guard like his own militia. This went against what they stood for. Their duties first and foremost were to the people of Denerim: To police, to protect, and to serve them. Not to be used as pawns for the nobles, to settle old grudges nor to curb opposition to a particular group or noble family.

He wasn't going to ignore his sworn vows to the citizens of Denerim so that he could hunt down sympathizers to the Grey Wardens or supporters of the Cousland family. How would that benefit the people of Denerim? Sadly, for Kylon it seemed that the priorities of the new ruling Arl were not for the city or her people, but for his own personal objectives.

This Rendon Howe seemed willing to tear Denerim apart to secure his own power base. 

According to the new Arl, the Grey Wardens were responsible for killing King Cailan and for the disastrous defeat at Ostagar, while the Couslands, Howe had labeled them as traitors to Ferelden.

Grey Wardens killing the king, Kylon snorted. It was one of the more absurd pieces of gossip that he had ever heard. In regards to the Couslands being traitors, Kylon wasn't sure what to believe. He was a man of Denerim, and had remained rather oblivious to the politics of the Bannorn and the nobles of Ferelden and their little games. 

For Robert Kylon his concern had never been with the dealings and politics of those outside of Denerim. He had enough to worry about within the city to be preoccupied by the rest of Ferelden. However, that may be a luxury he could no longer afford. Ferelden was in a state of strife the likes of which it had not seen since the Occupation: darkspawn invading from the south, and a resistance fermenting in the Bannorn. The problems of Ferelden were beginning to seep into Denerim, which meant problems for Robert Kylon.

The city guard sergeant stopped outside the Gnawed Noble Tavern. This place was one of the staples of Denerim. It was a favorite spot for the nobility, wealthy merchants, and influential knights. The tavern had become increasingly busy in the past few days since Regent Loghain had called on the Banns and freeholders to come to Denerim for a Landsmeet in the aftermath of the Battle of Ostagar.

It was here that he was meeting a friend and contact within the city. Robert Kylon entered the tavern, it was unsurprisingly crowded. Every table was filled with some of the most important people in Ferelden, telling different stories and trading gossip about what was happening throughout the country.

At one table he heard a silent toast being made to the Couslands. They followed their secret toast by adding a prayer to the Maker asking to give Oren and Edmund strength for the times to come. Those must be the two Couslands that the new Arl had wanted apprehended.

However, Robert Kylon made no attempt to do that. Regardless of the orders given by the new Arl, Kylon could not see the good for Denerim by involving her city guard in what seemed to be a Bannorn matter.

At another table a Bann was retelling the Battle of Ostagar to a group of Teyrn Loghain supporters. They were more boisterous then some of the other tables. They were claiming that the Teyrn's judgment should not be questioned and if that the Hero of River Dane said that the battle could not be won then it should be taken at his word.

Passing the rest of the tables, the bartender gave Robert a friendly wave before nodding to the hallway that led to the private rooms. Kylon waved him his thanks and slipped out of the tavern's main hall and into the hallway that snaked further back before branching off into various different private rooms. He knew he reached the right room by the familiar guards who stood outside the doorway. One gave him a friendly nod as the other opened the door for him.

The private room was well furnished with a mixture of a bedroom and sitting room furniture. It was in the sitting area that he found his contact. Sitting at the table with plates covered with food scattered across it, was one of the most well informed men in not just Denerim, but Ferelden. He wasn't a nobleman or a merchant. He was a commoner born in this very city who long ago realized that information can be just as valuable as gems and coin.

"Robert Kylon," he boomed, looking up from his half eaten chicken.

"Slim," Robert greeted taking the seat across from Slim Couldry.

Despite the name, Slim was anything but, a portly man with an appetite that never seemed sated whether it was food, women, drink, or information. Slim was never content. He had a short crop of red hair, equally fiery eyebrows and goatee with intelligent green eyes that always looked to be searching for something new to uncover.

A thief by trade, no one had an ear to Denerim like Slim Couldry. He traded secrets and coins, and had agents throughout the capital. He even claimed to have eyes and ears within every major noble estate in the city including the Royal Palace.

He hadn't allowed the city walls to stop his influence from spreading. He had agents throughout Ferelden. He had two kinds of agents, his little mice who were agents within the city of Denerim, and his birds which were his agents who were located throughout Ferelden. In a few short years, Slim Couldry had carved himself quite the operation and was considered by those that mattered to be the most well informed man in Denerim.

He was a criminal, but Robert Kylon had realized long ago that more good could come from working with Slim then whatever could have been gained by simply arresting him and allowing him to rot in some dungeon. So Robert Kylon overlooked some of Slim's faults and business practices and in return he gave Robert valuable information and kept him well informed about the city's criminal underworld. Slim's information had led to apprehending several prominent and violent criminals in the past few years.

"Drink?" He offered Kylon a tankard.

"Thanks." Robert didn't usually drink while on duty but after his meeting with Rendon Howe, he thought he was entitled to one.

Slim didn't seem to miss it either. "The new Arl must have made some impression on you."

"He did," Kylon took a sip from his tankard.

"Can't say I'll miss the old one," Slim made his distaste clear.

"Not sure if we'll hear anyone say that," Kylon agreed.

"He killed his own father ya know."

"I thought his father died at Ostagar."

"He did, but it was by an assassin's blade."

Sometimes it was scary how much Slim knew. It also made Robert thankful that Slim was an ally and he even considered the thief a friend. 

"You soured by the new Arl already?" Slim had moved onto a bowl filled with a rich hearty looking stew. However, his green eyes transfixed remained on Robert, alert for any tell.

"I will admit, I'm uncomfortable with some of his new instructions." 

"About the Grey Wardens and the Couslands," Slim was nodding. "Yeah, it seems they've found themselves as the top targets for the new Arl."

"What do you know of Howe?"

"The Arl of Amaranthine, a veteran from the Rebellion," Slim recited the information in a bored tone, "Believed himself slighted in his rewards for his service in restoring the Theirin line."

"Slighted?"

"Yeah," Slim leaned forward, "I suppose in large part that's what's been fueling him during some of his most recent and questionable actions."

"What has he done?" Kylon was not liking this report of his new Arl one bit.

"He put Cousland Castle to the torch," Slim bowed his head, "I lost a few good men in his attack."

"Cousland Castle?" Kylon wasn't familiar with many of the noble families or their homes throughout Ferelden. 

"In Highever," Slim looked amused, "He claimed the Teyrnir for himself."

"What about the surviving Couslands?" Kylon took a large sip from his tankard.

"Howe needs them dead," Slim stated matter-of-factly. "They stand in his way of legitimizing his claim to the Teyrnir."

"And he plans to use the city guard to carry out his dirty work?" Kylon felt his stomach lurch at the implications. This was not their duty. This was not their fight. He wasn't going to be used as a pawn in this battle between nobles.

"If they venture here, I imagine he would," Slim confirmed, "but I don't think you have to worry about that."

That got Kylon's attention. "What do you mean?"

"They went west with Bann Loren," Slim revealed.

"What did these Couslands do?" It was difficult for Kylon to make any sense of these nobles and their motivations.

"They live," Slim slurped up a spoonful of his stew.

Kylon couldn't resist the frown that came to his lips at his friend's blunt answer.

Slim noticed it as well, smiling. "My friend, your heart isn't made for politics, I think."

"No, it isn't," Kylon happily agreed.

In times like this, Robert couldn't help but believe that they would be better off without the nobles. They use their wealth and family history to fight petty grudges to preserve their ancestral honor. In the end it was always the people that suffered. They were the ones who died for these nobles. Poor and misguided men and women who would die over disagreements they never understood or areas of land they would never see.

It just never sat right with Robert Kylon. It was why he was happy to be serving in Denerim. Less nobles, and it was the people he was helping, not the selfish ambitions of the aristocracy. Highever, Amaranthine, these were just names on a map for Robert Kylon. They meant nothing to him, and now it seemed this fight between these families was going to be carried over into his city.

Kylon ran a hand over his face, "And the Grey Wardens?"

"My birds tell me the last two Grey Wardens have just left Lothering." He stirred his stew with his spoon. "I suspect they're headed towards Redcliffe."

"Suspect or know?" Kylon questioned.

Slim chuckled. "I know." His expression suddenly sobered, "I know you love this city as much as me, and that you claim yourself neutral with the nobles."

"I am neutral," Kylon interrupted. 

"And I'm afraid the time of neutrality may be over."

"I serve the people," Kylon pointed out. His loyalty was to them and Denerim alone.

"I'm aware of that," Slim said gently, "but I fear that Howe is no good for our city."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you know why your city guardsmen Otis and Donald haven't reported back since their last shift?"

"Why?" They were two of his more trusted guardsmen who he had put on patrol duty of the Alienage. They hadn't been seen in two days. He wasn't surprised that Slim would know what had happened to them before he did.

"Your new Arl of Denerim had them seized and questioned for their suspected loyalties."

"Suspected loyalties?" Kylon was having a hard time keeping his anger under control. They were good men, who had families. They served the city guard with honor and cared for the people of Denerim. That was where their loyalties were.

"Yes, they both hailed from Highever, did they not?"

Kylon knew where this was going, but he remained quiet so that his friend could finish.

"Families historically loyal to the Couslands," Slim continued.

"What did he do to them?" He had an inkling of what happened to them, but he needed to hear it. They deserved that much. He needed to be the one to tell their families. He would get some of the men including himself to donate a bit of their coin to the families. They had to look out for one another.

"He tortured them under the guise of an interrogation," Slim paused, concern in his eyes. "When he was done with them he gave them over to his new allies."

"New allies?" This was the first time Robert Kylon had heard about Howe having new allies.

"Blood mages," Slim answered, not hiding his disgust. "Don't ask me where, even I don't know where those blood mages have made their nest," He went back to his stew. "It's very problematic to have agents around blood mages since they can read your mind."

Blood mages, Robert Kylon couldn't believe it. How could Howe sink to such depths? To align with those monsters, the Chantry considers them the foulest of enemies outside the darkspawn.

"These are dark times we live in, my friend," Slim echoed Kylon's thoughts and fears. He reached over the table to gingerly pat Robert on the arm. "I fear a storm is coming and that Denerim will be facing the brunt of its wrath."

"Can we prevent this?"

"No, we can only prepare for it."

"What would you have me do?" He would do anything in his power to help get Denerim and her people through these dark times.

"I'll let you know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slim is a minor NPC in Dragon Age Origins, but I've expanded his role in this story, I felt like he had a lot of potential and will serve as a nice supporting character in Kylon's story arc.
> 
> In this story, he does take some inspiration from Varys from 'A Song of Ice and Fire,' which I give a not so subtle hint at with Slim referring to his spies as his 'birds.'
> 
> Since in his quest in the game he does refer to having friends and spies throughout the city, so he is a spymaster in his own right in the game. I just wanted to expand that network and his further explore his character especially with his interesting backstory as someone with a soft spot with elves since he's 'elf-blooded,' and what drives him as a devout Andrastian.
> 
> So I hope you like this take on his character. 
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	13. Oren

"Mama?"

He had been pulled out of his slumber by a noise. Oren wiped the sleep out of his eyes while looking around his room. There was nothing there. He was just about to close his eyes when he heard the noise again. It was a loud crash. It sounded as if it was coming from the outside corridor.

"Mama?"

Shouts followed, but they were now coming from just behind his bedroom door.

"No, please!" That was mama's voice.

"Gut the bitch!" A harsh voice shouted. A scream followed, and then a soft thud. The room beyond his door went quiet.

"Mama?" He cried weakly. Oren couldn't move. He gripped the blankets tightly. He felt the tears stream down his cheeks.

The door creaked opened, flooding the room with candlelight and torches. Peering over the blankets, Oren could see two men stepping into his room. Their swords were out and from the light he could see blood dripping off of the blades-Mama's blood.

"That's the boy, Fletcher" the one on the left said.

"Then kill him, Gordon, and let's be done with it," Fletcher growled. There was a dark glint in his eyes and his scarred face made him look terrifying. He was covered in blood.

Gordon hesitated. He looked younger. The sword in his hand was shaking. He licked his lips, glancing from Oren to his partner, Fletcher. He raised his sword. "Do we have to kill him?"

"You heard the Arl!" snapped Fletcher impatiently. "Now be done with it."

"He's just a boy," Gordon lowered his sword. "I-I can't."

"Fine," Fletcher sounded annoyed. "Don't want to get your hands dirty." He moved closer towards Oren, his sword raised.

Oren felt a warm trickle down his legs that spread to his sheets. The smell soon filled his nose. He closed his eyes; his cheeks slick with tears. His whole body was shaking.

"Get away from him!" A voice snarled.

Oren opened his eyes to see Uncle and Sarim launch themselves into the room. Sarim tackled Gordon while Uncle charged Fletcher. He closed his eyes, but he couldn't cover his ears. He heard the wet, rasping screams from Gordon as Sarim mauled him.

He could hear Fletcher's shouts and curses as his blade clashed with Uncle's. The steel of the blades clashed again and again, before there was a muffled sigh, and Oren felt a splash of something warm hit him across the face.

He opened his eyes slowly. He brought his hands to his face, his fingers touching the warm liquid along his cheek, and when he pulled his hand away, he saw the blood. His tummy rumbled. He felt the burning taste of vomit creep up his throat. He was able to push it down, but the burning sensation remained.

"Oren, are you alright?"

He turned in the direction of Uncle's voice. He looked tired. His nightshirt was drenched in blood, as was part of his face and hands. His throat was scratchy and still burned from the vomit, "Uncle?"

"I'm here," he said softly. He looked over his shoulder, "But we need to go."

The urgency in his voice seemed to help shake Oren out of his daze. He tossed aside the blankets, and slipped out from the bed. Sarim was waiting for him. The mabari licked Oren's outstretched fingers before letting him pass.

"Mama!" he cried suddenly, running to his parents' room.

"Oren, no!" Uncle reached out to grab Oren, but he sidestepped his hand. He had to get to mama. He had to save her. He ran out of his room. He didn't get far before he saw her.

She was lying on the floor, blood pooling around her, her blood. A sword was protruding from her belly. He saw a fresh, red scar along her forehead where the blood was encrusted into her hair. Her nightdress was torn. Her head lulled to the side, and her eyes usually so bright and warm were dull and empty.

"Mama?" he croaked. His vision was blurry from the fresh tears.

"Oren," Uncle grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, and in one swift tug spun him around so that Oren's face hit Uncle's stomach. His other hand went to the back of Oren's head, forcing his face into his shirt.

"Mama," Oren felt his whole body trembling against his Uncle. He kept his eyes firmly closed, but he couldn't get the image of Mama out of his mind. It stubbornly remained as the tears continued. Uncle was softly running a hand through his hair and saying something, but Oren couldn't hear what it was…

Oren woke with a jolt. He raised his head, quickly finding himself back in his room in Caer Oswin. He was shivering, soaked in sweat.

He was having it every night for more than a week. It wasn't a dream. It wasn't a nightmare. It was his memory of that night.

No matter how hard he tried he couldn't forget it. It came to haunt him every night.

Oren Cousland quietly sobbed into his pillow.

This was his life now.

\-----------------------------

I'm alone.

Oren Cousland may be surrounded by soldiers and servants. They gave him smiles and nods, bows and curtsies, but he never felt more alone in his life.

Uncle had left and had taken Loren's knights and militia with him to fight Howe's men. It was suppose to show Ferelden that they we're still here; that the rightful ruler of Highever is alive and well.

That was me.

Oren Cousland was now the Teyrn of Highever. It wasn't something he wanted. Nothing good had come from it. The day he became Teyrn was the day he found out his father was dead.

Papa, Oren sniffled.

He felt the prickle of tears in his eyes at the memory of Uncle telling him that Papa wouldn't be coming for them. That it was now up to Oren to carry on the family name and duty of ruling Highever. A home they were exiled from, where another claimed himself Teyrn.

That hadn't mattered to Uncle. He was determined now to fight Howe and rally forces against their new enemies. Before Uncle had told him that King Cailan, Teyrn Loghain, and Papa would save them, but that was not to be. King Cailan had died at Ostagar like Papa, and Teyrn Loghain had allied himself with Rendon Howe.

So now it had fallen on Uncle to win back Highever. That was when he had agreed to Loren's plan of attacking Howe's forces. He had told Oren that in order to get Highever back they needed men, and victories and Uncle felt it was up to him to get them.

Uncle was now Oren's guardian. Since Oren was too young to actually rule Highever, it fell on Uncle to handle the burden until Oren came of age. That didn't mean Oren was excluded from any responsibilities. He was still expected to look, talk, and act the part.

Some of the tasks and lessons Oren was learning were familiar. They were the same ones his parents and Aldous had been teaching him back in Highever. Oren had understood that one day he was going to inherit Highever, but it wasn't supposed to be like this.

Now, Oren didn't even want Highever. He just wanted his Uncle.

Caer Oswin was nice enough. Oren was given leave to go where he wanted, but now that he was Teyrn he couldn't leave his room unescorted, and even in his room two guards were always positioned outside. His Uncle's doing.

Uncle had changed and Oren didn't like it. He didn't talk to Oren like his nephew, but as his Teyrn. He didn't give Oren any more hugs only bows. He had established strict protocol and proper etiquette around Oren to be used at all times.

The title had only made Oren lonelier. He felt as if a wall had been put up between him and everyone else. It had pushed Uncle away from him. He would no longer show him affection now that he was the Teyrn. He drilled Oren of the responsibilities and expectations that were now being put on him as the new Teyrn of Highever.

There had been a glimpse of his former Uncle when he said his goodbyes to Oren…

"I don't want you to go!" Oren didn't care that he sounded whiny. That he wasn't acting like a proper Teyrn. He didn't want to be a proper Teyrn. He just wanted Uncle to stay with him.

"I have to go, Oren," Uncle tried to assure him.

"W-what if I-I ordered you not to?" Hope filled his heart. "Would you still go?"

"You are my Teyrn," he admitted, "if that was your order I would obey it."

"Good," Oren was smiling. "That's my order."

"Oren," Uncle said softly, "As noblemen we're not allowed to be selfish." He crouched down to become eye level with Oren. "We must be selfless. We must put aside our own wants and desires and do what is best for our people."

"And that means letting you fight?"

"It does."

"But I don't want men fighting for me." Oren felt tears stinging his eyes. "I don't want men dying for me."

Uncle cupped Oren's cheeks, wiping away the tears with his thumbs. "You have a tender heart, Oren," he kissed Oren's brow. "You will be a great Teyrn."

"I-I don't want to be Teyrn," Oren objected. "You should be the Teyrn not me."

"No, I shouldn't be," he tousled his hair. "The Teyrnir is yours by law and I will do everything in my power to reclaim your birthright."

He wrapped up Oren in his strong arms, holding him close to his chest. "I may not always be able to tell you how much I care for you, but make no mistake, Oren, you are dear to me, so very dear to me."

"Alright, Uncle," Oren hiccupped, burying his face in his uncle's shirt. He couldn't disappoint him.

"You're making the right decision, Oren," Edmund pulled away, his green eyes shimmering with pride and approval…

"Your Lordship?"

Oren turned to the muffled voice coming from outside his room. "Yes?"

"It's time for dinner."

"Very well," Oren replied, "I'll be right out."

He inspected his tunic to make sure he looked presentable. Uncle wanted Oren to dress more proper now that he was Teyrn, and less like a pauper. Loren's seamstress had put together a few new outfits for Oren. They were the same dressy and stuffy clothes he had to wear back in Highever when he accompanied his parents to court or left the castle.

He was dressed in a dark tunic, the Cousland family sigil emblazoned over his heart. Realizing that he was presentable, he opened the door to see his two personal guards waiting for him. Today's shift he had Harris and Sinclair.

They fell in line behind him and kept quiet. They were two of Loren's handful of knights who were tasked with guarding Oren. None of them were pleased with the duty, but they were content in carrying it out, knowing that after this stint it was likely they would see action in the next battle.

They were polite to Oren, but none of them really left that much of an impression on him. Their faces and voices all blended together and to Oren, they might as well all be one person. He only knew their names because Uncle made him memorize them before he left.

\------------

Like always the meal had been simple and quiet. The food was good, but the hall was mostly empty. The servants who attended to Oren were polite and nice. It just never felt right being here. Before, he had Uncle to sit and eat with him, but now Oren had nobody except the Bann.

Bann Loren was nice enough to be around. He didn't seem to mind the silence. Besides barking the occasional order, he kept to himself during meals. He looked sad, and Oren often wondered if he pretended he was eating his meals with his lost son and wife. It's what Oren tried to do, imagining he was eating with his family and not the empty, unfamiliar hall of Bann Loren.

Afterwards, Oren made his way back to his room accompanied by Harris and Sinclair. Besides his room, the dining hall, and the chapel he didn't wander the estate much. The two knights were talking quietly to themselves. He wasn't really paying attention, but it sounded as if they were talking about one of Loren's serving wenches.

They were halfway down the corridor that led them to Oren's room when suddenly an orange blur streaked past him, he jumped back in surprise. The knights sputtered indignantly at the menace.

"Andraste's knickers!" That was Sinclair. "What was that?"

Oren turned to see that the orange blur was in fact a cat. Its fur matted with dirt and other filth, the tip of its left ear was missing, and its whiskers disheveled. The cat's green eyes were glaring at Oren.

"Oh, it's just him," dismissed Harris. "He's a nasty blighter."

"Who does it belong to?" Oren's eyes remained on the animal.

"It doesn't belong to anyone," Harris answered, "The mangy beast has caused all sorts of havoc for the cook in the kitchens."

Oren took a step closer towards the wild cat.

"Your Lordship," Sinclair held out his arm. "That may not be a wise idea."

"I just want to get a closer look," Oren argued, sidestepping Sinclair's arm and moving closer.

The cat's green eyes transfixed on Oren's approach, its striped tail lazily swaying from one side to another. Oren noticed that part of its tail looked to have been cut off. It hissed at Oren when it felt he got close enough.

"Master Oren," Harris called for him. "He's not afraid of you. He'll scratch you bloody if you get too close."

Oren heeded the warning, "H-Hello."

The cat's green eyes remained hardened, its orange, mangy fur on end.

"It's alright," Oren kept talking, "I'm not going to hurt you."

The approaching footsteps of Sinclair and Harris had the cat ready to bolt.

"Wait!" Oren held up his hand. "Don't come any closer."

The two knights immediately stopped more out of their instinct to follow orders than anything else.

"You hungry?" Oren fished in his pocket for a piece of cheese that he had pocketed during dinner to have for later. He reached out his hand slowly not wanting to scare off or aggravate the cat. He dropped the cheese within reach of it. "Here you go."

The cat sniffed at the offered cheese, before showing its sharp teeth it then proceeded to nibble on the cheese. Its green eyes occasionally glanced up at Oren as it ate, still considering him a threat.

Oren smiled, standing back up. He didn't resist when the two knights led him back to his room, but he did look back to see the cat finishing the piece of cheese before darting off, but Oren was sure he saw the cat look his way before it departed.

After that encounter, Oren kept pieces of cheese in his pocket at all times in case he met up with the cat again. Apparently Sinclair and Harris had told the other knights on their detail about the cat since none of them commented on Oren's insistence to explore the corridors in hopes of finding it. Not liking to refer to the cat as the cat, Oren now called him Ser Whiskers.

\---------------------

It had been two days since Oren's first and only encounter with Ser Whiskers. He was in the chapel. Oren liked to say his prayers. It was one of the few places where he could have comforting memories of his Mama. She had often taken him to the chapel in Castle Cousland. She had always told him the importance of having faith. Even though he had been in Loren's estate for some time, Oren still felt like a stranger in these halls, but never in the chapel.

The chapel served as a shelter for Oren. It helped to calm him. Here, the memory of the attack couldn't hurt Oren. He was safe from the pain and ache. He never saw the images of the dead. When he was in the chapel he remembered them when they were alive, the smiles and the laughs.

Oren also liked to pray for Uncle's safe return. He had been gone for almost a week, and they hadn't heard anything from him or his men. He noticed that the memory of the attack that haunted him every night had started right after Uncle had left. It was just another reason why Oren wanted his Uncle to come back. He would know a way to stop them from coming.

Bann Loren told Oren yesterday morning that they should be hearing from him any day now. It had only taken so long because they had to track and find Howe's forces and after getting a report from them then it was only a matter of days before they returned.

It was good news for Oren. He wasn't sure he could take the memories of the attack haunting him anymore. At times, he didn't even want to close his eyes when it was time to sleep because he was afraid where he would go once he slipped into sleep. The sooner Uncle returned the better.

"Your Lordship," Harris was guarding him again as was Sinclair. Harris had taken a position at the entrance of the chapel while Sinclair was standing behind the pew Oren was sitting on.

"Hmm?" Oren asked.

"Your friend has returned."

It took Oren a second to figure out who Harris was referring to, before realizing it was Ser Whiskers. Hastily finishing his prayers, he sprinted out of the chapel to see that the knight had spoken true. Squatting under a bench not ten feet away from the chapel entrance was Ser Whiskers.

The sight alone was enough to bring a small smile to Oren's lips. It was in seeing Ser Whiskers again did Oren realize just how much he had missed the cat. He looked back to see Sinclair had joined Harris at the entrance of the chapel, but neither of them had made an effort to get any closer. They trusted Oren. They were also close enough to jump in if something happened.

"H-Hi," Oren squeaked out a greeting.

Ser Whiskers tilted his head, his green eyes suspicious, before answering Oren's greeting with a scratchy meow.

Oren took that as a good sign. He moved closer to Ser Whiskers who remained under the bench, but had shifted into a pouncing position as a warning.

"I've been looking for you," Oren said, respecting the cat's warning. He felt some strange sort of happiness swell within as he talked to Ser Whiskers. He couldn't explain why, but it just felt nice to talk to the cat.

"I have some more cheese for you," Oren presented the piece of cheese, cautiously placing it in front of Ser Whiskers.

The cat sniffed the air before inching closer to the offered food. When it was close enough it greedily began nibbling on the cheese.

Oren smiled, slowly getting closer to Ser Whiskers who was too preoccupied with the cheese to notice his encroachment. When he got close enough, he tried to reach out a hand towards him. Ser Whiskers immediately reacted with a warning and a hiss, swatting at Oren's hand, he was able to move his hand away before the sharp claws could graze his skin.

"I-I'm sorry," Oren's voice trembled. He felt his heart hammering in his chest.

Ser Whiskers finished the cheese in a few bites. Its green eyes staring at Oren in a way he couldn't understand, before the cat scurried out from under the bench darting off down the corridor and out of sight.

"Your Lordship, what are you doing on the floor?"

Scrambling out from under the bench, Oren looked up to see Bann Loren striding towards him. Oren immediately pushed himself up from the floor. "I was just leaving the chapel."

"I see," a hint of approval in Loren's voice. It wasn't a secret that the Bann was a devout man. He then eyed the bench that Oren had been under. "You know you spend too much time cooped up in this castle." He gestured to the nearby window over the bench. "Don't you want to go outside and play with the other children?"

"N-No," Oren shook his head. He dusted off his pants. Not wanting to look at the Bann. "They like to play knights and darkspawn."

"And you don't like that game?" asked a bemused Bann.

"I-I can't pretend anymore," Oren confessed. He felt the tears swell in his eyes.

He couldn't pretend to be a knight fighting off monsters and riding a dragon, not after everything he saw. Every time he tried to pretend, the images of that attack came to him, and other bad memories that made him sick.

"I can understand that," Loren said sympathetically. "I was on my way to say my prayers."

"I just finished mine." Oren was thankful for the change of topic.

Loren offered him a small smile. "Your parents are proud of you, I'm sure." He gently patted Oren's shoulder. "They walk beside the Maker." He sniffed, "With my Landra and Dairren."

"They reside in His Kingdom now," Loren's gaze went to the windows. "This is not His Kingdom." He sighed. "This is the world and it is plagued by the sins of man."

Suddenly a bellowing of horns broke through, echoing off the walls. It reminded Oren of the hunting horns his papa and grandpapa would use when they returned from a successful hunt. 

Loren had gotten this strange look before moving closer towards the window while Harris and Sinclair moved to join him. They broke into smiles and soft whooping, as the two knights clapped each other on the backs.

"I don't understand," Oren said, the windows were too high up. He couldn't see what the others were looking at. Why were they so happy?

"The Maker has answered our prayers!" Loren exclaimed, clapping his hands together. He turned to Oren, offering up his hand for Oren to allow him to climb up onto the bench so that he could see what the others were seeing.

Looking out into the courtyard Oren noticed a handful of riders entering the estate. They were the ones blowing the horns, while the others were holding banners and Oren recognized the three prominent banners immediately.

The first was the laurels of the Cousland family. The second was the raindrop crossed by spears representing Highever, and the third was of a green gate. That was the sigil of the Arling of South Reach.

Oren didn't get it. "What's going on?"

Loren turned to him. He was smiling. "The Maker has given us an army."


	14. Cauthrien

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I noticed an uptick in those who dropped kudos' and bookmarked this story. Those made my day knowing there was a growing audience for this story. 
> 
> I want to extend my appreciation to WakingOblivion who took the time to drop a comment for the last chapter. That meant a lot to me. So thank you.

"Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and do not falter."

Cauthrien opened her eyes.

The words stirred within her. These were the trials she found herself facing. Sedition was spreading across the Bannorn, the corrupt nobles who were using the tragedy of the king's death to rebel against their queen.

I must remain steadfast in my faith, she silently added. My loyalties cannot be forgotten, nor those I swore to serve be ignored.

She stood from her kneeling position.

The Chantry sister who was reciting the verses paid Cauthrien no notice. The Denerim Chantry was crowded with refugees from the south who were fleeing the darkspawn. The pews were all filled with faithful Andrastians. Their heads were bowed, hands clasped in front of them. They were praying with a zealous fervor that bordered on desperation for protection and guidance from the Maker and His bride.

Cauthrien passed children who were playing in the corner; most seemed ignorant of the trials and troubles that were threatening them. Other children were all too familiar with it. Their eyes were hollow and red rimmed, many of whom murmuring the names of the friends, siblings, or parents they had lost to the darkspawn.

Seeing children affected by war was never an easy sight to see. It was not something anyone should ever be use to. It wasn't a pain that could be numbed. To see such innocence snatched away and replaced by terror was heart wrenching for Cauthrien. Young faces with haunted looks and empty eyes unable to smile or play. They were stuck in a moment of fear that continued to loop haunting them continuously.

With all of her training and skill it was the children who she couldn't help with her blade that hurt her the most. Those she was too late to save. Their bodies were healthy, but their souls had been tarnished by the horrors they were forced to witness.

She stepped out of the historic, but underwhelming Denerim Chantry. The two templars guarding the door gave her a tight nod. She walked past the Chanter's Board, taking in the frenzied sight of Denerim's Market District.

Denerim…

She could never get use to this city.

It was a city of contrasts where the rich lived in unrivaled opulence while the poor lived in beastly squalor. She hated it here. Everything was wrong. There was no higher purpose to be found. There was no order.

Here, people were only loyal to themselves. The only thing they served was their greed and ambition. There was no accountability. The people were left to do as they will and the result was never pleasant. Murders and robberies were common, bodies found in alleys without a second thought.

"Loghain betrayed our king!"

The loud voice broke through Cauthrien's musings. She found the source coming from a haggard beggar outside the Denerim Chantry walls. He was dressed in rags, a nasty looking scar covered one side of his face, and his hands were heavily bandaged.

How dare he, Cauthrien silently fumed at this man's audacity. To question the loyalty of one of Fereldan's finest. It was unacceptable. She looked around to see no one else seemed offended by this man's bold words. To her disbelief, she actually saw nods and heard ripples of agreement from the crowd. She spotted a pair of city guards off to the side neither of them looked to be preparing to step in to silence this man's slander. They seemed to be enjoying it.

Cauthrien moved towards the man. Someone needed to defend the Teyrn's honor.

His lunacy was gaining a growing audience. The crowd had only emboldened him.

"I was there!" He declared to the crowd. "When Loghain turned cloak and betrayed his king!"

"That's not true," Cauthrien shouted, far louder then she intended to. The crowd parted and all heads turned towards her. The buzzing of the audience grew louder. She ignored them as she made her way towards the instigator.

"Oh?" The man sounded amused, raising his bushy eyebrows, he was playing towards the crowd. He sent her a sarcastic smile that earned a few chuckles from his onlookers. His eyes then flickered over to her chest plate before resting on the Gwaren insignia.

"Aha!" He pointed at it. "Here's an example of one of Loghain's loyal hounds that he has spread across our great city to stop the truth from coming out!"

This earned a chorus of boos. The mood of the people was beginning to turn, as they began to jostle one another.

Cauthrien realized she had made a mistake. She never should have allowed herself to be baited in the first place. She should've risen above this nonsense. It was too late for her to back down now that she was in the thick of it.

"Did the Teyrn not retreat?" The man pressed on.

Sound the retreat, Loghain's order whispered in the back corners of her mind. When she closed her eyes she could still remember seeing the burning beacon, the blazing fire on top of the Tower of Ishal. In that moment it was as bright as a star.

Stunned and confused by the decision. She was rooted to her spot, her eyes on the blazing inferno atop the Tower while she babbled to Loghain about the king, about the battle. It wasn't until he grabbed her by the wrist and was confronted by the look in his eyes did she snap out of her disbelieving daze.

She had her orders. It was her duty to follow them, not question them.

Cauthrien clamped down on the memory before it could go any further. It did her no good to have it trudge back up.

"There's more to it than that." She had to raise her voice just be to be heard as the crowd was becoming increasingly restless. Loghain had a reason. He couldn't risk Fereldan's forces. If he gambled them at Ostagar and lost then Ferelden would've lost.

These were the words that comforted her in her time of doubt. It soothed her discomfort whenever she was reminded of all those who perished at Ostagar. They would've understood. Their sacrifice will not be forgotten. Because of it, Ferelden could be saved.

Looking around at the crowd, Cauthrien doubted that these people could understand tactics or the hard decisions needed in times of war.

"No more lies!" He raised his arms above his head while continuing to shout. The words caught on, like a blaze spreading through the crowd as their voices joined his in a deafening chorus.

What had started out as a curious group was quickly becoming a mob. They started pushing and shoving one another. It was spiraling out of control. Individual fights from opposing sides turned from words into violence. The two city guardsmen who had been chuckling and grinning with the others were now finally doing their duties and trying to disperse the group, but at this point it was too late for the two of them to suppress alone.

Cauthrien was quick to slip in between the pockets of fistfights and brawls. When one man grabbed her by the shoulder, she spun around and delivered a punch to his gut that brought him to his knees. She continued forward without a backwards glance at the injured man.

When she cleared the bickering and battling mob did she notice the arrival of more city guardsmen who with the proper numbers were finally able to quell the mob. The people soon scattered while the wounded were attended to and a few of the guilty were being rounded up. Scanning the area, she quickly noticed there was no sign of the instigator. He had slipped away.

"Excuse me," called a voice.

Cauthrien kept walking. Quietly berating herself for letting her frustration and anger get the best of her. She allowed her judgment to be clouded. Her poor behavior was a poor reflection on her Teyrn.

"Excuse me, my lady," The voice persisted. "We need to speak with you."

She looked over her shoulder to see that it was the one the guards.

"Thank you, lady…"

"It's ser," Cauthrien corrected him, "Ser Cauthrien."

She hadn't spent all those years training so that she would be mistaken for some genteel lady. No, she was a knight. A damn good one and she wasn't going to allow her skill to be unacknowledged by these men. No to mention the armor she was wearing and the sword strapped to her back should have been good indicators that she wasn't some dainty noblewoman.

"My apologies, ser," the man corrected.

"What's your name and rank?" The last thing she needed right now was for her time to be wasted by being interviewed by some novice guardsmen.

"Sgt. Robert Kylon," he answered casually, as if he was use to citizens regularly asking him his name and rank. "Are you hurt?"

She shrugged off his concern. "I can take care of myself."

He smiled, "Yes, I can see that."

"It took your men long enough to respond to the threat," She crossed her arms over her chest. 

His smile dipped into a frown. "We responded with the necessary force at the appropriate time."

"The instigator should've been dealt with long before it spiraled into a fistfight."

"He had a right to say his peace," Robert defended. "Every man and woman has a right to say it in this city."

Figures, she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She could point to this as one of the basic examples of the faults of this city. No loyalty to anyone but themselves. It was madness to allow these people to unjustly slander their rulers and to sow discord amongst the people. It was a wonder that there weren't more riots in this city.

"You don't approve?"

"No," she was all too happy to reply. "How can you sustain order when you allow such reckless freedoms to disregard it?"

The sergeant looked like he had something to say, but another guardsmen approached them before he could further voice his opinion.

"Ser, we're getting complaints from the Pearl."

Kylon sighed, "Damn, mercenaries." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Round up a few others. We'll head over there together to try to deter them." He turned back to her. "Excuse me, Ser Cauthrien, but duty calls." He bowed his head before leaving.

Cauthrien turned back at the men being arrested from the mob. This was the example of the so called freedom this guardsman preached for his city.

She shook her head.

No, she would never understand Denerim.

\-----------------------------------

"There are a lot of names on this list."

The Teyrn of Gwaren was standing behind his desk, looking over a piece of vellum. The newly minted Teyrn of Highever, Rendon Howe was standing by the fireplace. A goblet in his hands while his eyes flickered from the flames towards Seneschal Luwin, who was the only one seated, having taken a seat across the Teyrn's desk.

Cauthrien had always liked the Seneschal. She remembered him from his time in Gwaren serving under Teyrn Loghain. He was a man of character. He spoke his mind, but was always mindful of his station. He treated all those he came across with respect whether they were above his rank or below it.

The new Teyrn of Highever was more an enigma to Cauthrien. She knew very little of the man. She was aware that he was the Arl of Amaranthine and that the Howes were one of the oldest families in Ferelden. She also knew that he had fought the Orlesians during the Rebellion and had survived one of the worst defeats during the Orlesian occupation -the Battle of White River. 

It had been said that Howe was using the gold he seized in Highever to pay several different mercenary companies to defend his newly acquired territory. It was even whispered that Howe had hired the Kadan-Fe, a qunari mercenary group to hunt down the rebel nobleman, Edmund Cousland. When it came to rumors, Cauthrien tried her best to ignore them. Not an easy feat to accomplish in Denerim. This was a city that churned out gossip and rumors at an impressive rate. It spread through this city like a fever. 

What she did know was at the center of this mess was Edmund Cousland. He was responsible for spurring countless other nobles across the Bannorn to revolt. He was gathering an army with the intent of retaking Highever from Howe's forces. This was just another example of the constant squabbling amongst the nobility. In the Bannorn the nobles were regularly getting in disputes with one another over petty things.

It was a headache to sort out. Cauthrien could care less about the Couslands or the Howes, and who was right or who was in the wrong. Her duty was to Ferelden.

And right now the list that the Teyrn had just received was the name of every noble not expected to attend the Queen's Landsmeet. They were colluding with Edmund Cousland in his rebellion.

That list was the reason for this unplanned and hastily put together meeting between the two Teyrns of Ferelden, and the Queen's Seneschal, who was sitting in for Her Majesty, who was unable to attend as she was preparing for the Landsmeet.

It was at this Landsmeet that the Queen would declare her father, the hero of River Dane, the Commander of Ferelden's armies. It was then expected of the nobility to supply the forces and swear fealty to the Teyrn so that they could defeat this darkspawn threat.

"Every day is an act of defiance from them, your Lordship," Howe pointed out.

Cauthrien remained silent. She stood away from the others. In this type of setting she understood her role. She was to be as still and as silent as a statue. It was a glorified guard position, but Loghain didn't trust the usual guards to handle the valuable information and possible secrets that might be discussed in these meeting. So for him to personally choose her for this kind of assignment was an unexpected form of praise.

"Your Lordship, we could prevent this civil war if we sent an envoy to Edmund's faction," The Seneschal observed. "We could even broker a truce with them without blood being shed."

"Absolutely not," growled Howe. "I'm the Teyrn of Highever now."

The Seneschal frowned. He turned to Loghain for support or clarity on the matter, but the Teyrn ignored him.

This talking was meaningless, she thought. As much as she respected Seneschal Luwin she couldn't support his idea of sending an envoy. It would accomplish nothing. All that mattered to the rebels was their belief that Highever belonged to the Cousland family due to the family's ancestral history. No amount of negotiations or concessions was going to alter them from that path.

Loghain waved the list at the Seneschal. "Every person on this list is a traitor to Ferelden!"

"Well said, your Lordship," Howe smiled.

He was right, Cauthrien echoed a similar sentiment. Once more her Teyrn spoke truly. All that mattered now was ending this conflict in the Bannorn quickly and sufficiently.

"In front of the Landsmeet I will declare that any man who refuses to bow to my authority will have their lands burned." He crumpled the list in his hand.

"Tough measures, your Lordship, but they have forced your hand," Howe observed.

"Your Lordship," Luwin said politely, "I'm not sure Her Majesty will approve of such harsh methods."

"As the Commander of the Queen's armies, the matter of war is for me to address, not her," Loghain dismissed his concerns. "I know my duty. I will bring order to the Bannorn and then I will stop this darkspawn threat."

"Very well," Luwin stood from his seat. He bowed his head to the Teyrn of Gwaren before making a swift exit to no doubt report this message to the Queen.

"Have you considered my offer?" Howe waited until the Seneschal was gone before asking his question.

"It's too soon," Loghain sounded tired.

"That's why they won't be married, just a betrothal agreement," Howe insisted, "with the promise of marriage once the civil war and the darkspawn threats are dealt with."

"It's worth looking into," Loghain admitted.

"Excellent, your Lordship," Howe's oily voice cracked in delight. "Thomas has been very much looking forward to meeting Her Majesty and defending her claim to the throne."

Cauthrien had to muster her discipline to keep her expression stoic at this stunning revelation. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. The two were planning on marrying Howe's youngest to Queen Anora!

"Do not lose sight of our priority, Howe," Loghain reminded him. "This Civil War must be stopped before it can begin."

"Of course, your Lordship," Howe quickly agreed. "Then afterwards this betrothal announcement will bring a great deal of stability to the realm." He gestured to the Gwaren sigil above the fireplace. "A marriage between our houses will only strengthen our alliance. This union will serve as a new beginning for Ferelden."

"Very well," Loghain acquiesced. "I will bring the matter to Anora, but only after the rebels are dealt with."

"Then they will be dealt with." Howe raised his goblet, "To the future of Ferelden."

\---------------------

Cauthrien was not adept at politics, but even she recognized that the Landsmeet had gone poorly for Loghain. In no small part because of Bann Teagan, who spoke out openly against Loghain's ascension as Commander of Ferelden's armies. He balked at the notion of submitting to the Teyrn's leadership, and insinuating that it was the Teyrn's fault that Ostagar was a defeat while holding Loghain personally responsible for King Cailan being killed.

The accusations were unjust. Cauthrien was indignant that Teagan would say such seditious things to the Teyrn. He claimed it was the Teyrn's fault for the pending Civil War that was fermenting in the Bannorn while Teagan deflected the blame on those it did belong to, and those were his fellow Banns who refused to bend the knee and accept Loghain's leadership.

These nobles were too selfish and spoiled to see the truth. They were stuck in their ways and didn't want to follow a commoner. They never truly recognized Loghain as one of them. He was Teyrn of Gwaren in name, not blood. That was what they valued, blood, not skill. If they didn't repent from their misconceptions then they would doom Ferelden.

Cauthrien arrived at the council chambers with a very frustrated Teyrn Loghain. The Teyrn made his way over to the table where Seneschal Luwin was already sitting. Loghain took the offered ale from the elven servant with a grunt.

At the arrival of the queen, Cauthrien straightened up. She noticed the concern etched in the queen's features when she took a seat across from her father. A forced, but polite smile on her lips when she graciously accepted a glass of wine from the servant.

Cauthrien highly respected Queen Anora. She wasn't sure there was anyone stronger then Anora. She had to endure countless attacks from the nobility who were not pleased with the fact that their Queen was a commoner. The ultimate compliment she could give Anora, was that she truly was her father's daughter.

"It seems the Bannorn is gathering their forces," Luwin opened up the meeting with the blunt truth.

"It's nothing," Loghain dismissed. "The Bannorn will come to heel through blunt force if it is required."

The Bannorn will not bow simply because you demand it, Cauthrien remembered the cutting words that Teagan had hurled at Loghain before the Landsmeet had ended. It seemed he was right. She knew of battles, not politics, but she understood the importance of unified leadership, and they wouldn't have that as long as this resistance continued in the Bannorn.

Cauthrien couldn't understand why the Bannorn refused to see that Teyrn Loghain was their best hope. He had fought alongside King Maric in the Rebellion, kicking the Orlesians out of Ferelden and ending the occupation. No one else had the leadership or the experience to defeat the darkspawn. They would see reason, Cauthrien was sure of it. They talked like warriors and tacticians, but it was Loghain who was an experienced fighter, not these upstart Banns. After a taste of battle against him, they would submit and bend the knee.

"Are you so eager for conflict, father?"

"You cannot coddle the Bannorn, Anora," Loghain shot back. "They don't respect our position, but they will respect our might."

"I'm not seeking to coddle them," Anora said the word distastefully, "but I am seeking a peaceful agreement between our sides."

"You put me in charge of your armies."

"To fight the darkspawn," Anora argued, "not to turn them on our own people." She brought her hands to rest on the edge of the table. "You threatened to burn the lands of any Bann who stood against you." She recited, "To arrest any who opposed your command." She shook her head. "I cannot sanction this madness."

"This is war," Loghain said bluntly. "In these times we must be ruthless towards our enemies."

"They don't have to be our enemies," Anora's face softened. "It saddens me to see that you have forgotten what Ferelden is, father."

"You dare?" Loghain slammed his fists against the table. Scowling at his daughter, his countenance darkened.

Cauthrien too was stunned by the Queen's bold accusation. Unsure what would possess Anora to make such a claim. She understood that Anora and Loghain were still at odds at how the Cousland situation was resolved with the Teyrn siding with Howe. Yet, even in her grief at the Couslands' death and her disapproval at her father for handling the situation. These were still difficult words for her to justify.

"Never question my loyalty to this country," his voice had gone dangerously soft. "Everything I have done and will do is to ensure Ferelden's future!"

"Then remember why you love this country, father." Anora wasn't backing down. "Our strength as a country is in the power that the individual holds. It's that freedom that sets us apart."

"Enough, Anora," Loghain raised his hand in warning. "Do not think you can lecture me." He was still glaring at her. "This is my duty. I will lead the armies whether you permit me or not."

"The regent answers to the queen," Anora pointed out coolly, "Not the other way around."

"I'm not one of your servants or advisers who you can order and dismiss at your leisure, Anora," Loghain reminded her. "I am your father."

"I am your daughter," Anora conceded, "But I'm also the queen."

"Do I need to remind you how you were put on that throne?"

The room had gone quiet and tense. Anora was stoic, but Cauthrien could detect the silent storm raging within the Queen. Loghain looked weary, but his blue eyes remained sharp and transfixed on his daughter. The stubborn pair of father and daughter seemed to be waiting for the other to blink. While the Seneschal licked his lips nervously, looking back and forth between the Queen and the Regent.

It was uncomfortable to just be in the room.

"It seems I cannot dissuade you," Anora blinked first. "You have heard my words, father."

"You must trust me, Anora." There was an underlying plea in his voice.

"You will always have my love," she stood from her seat, "but I cannot support this course of action." She never allowed him a chance to reply, leaving the room with Seneschal Luwin in tow.

"She doesn't understand," Loghain said softly.

"Ser?" Cauthrien frowned.

"Only I can save Ferelden," he sighed. "That is my burden."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So not all is well and united in Denerim. In this AU, Anora has a different role and she finds her relationship with her father strenuous due to his handling of the Cousland massacre. A growing point of contention between them as well as his handling of the crisis in the Bannorn. 
> 
> Hope you liked Cauthrien's take on the war and the politics. She's one of the NPCs whose role I wanted to expand in this story, and hopefully you liked it, because we'll be getting her perspective quite a bit moving forward. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and if you have the time, please drop a comment. It means a lot to read your feedback.
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	15. Teagan

Maker give me strength.

Teagan Guerrin understood there was a storm coming to Ferelden. The king was dead. His brother was dying. The darkspawn were invading from the south while the nobility remain divided.

His country would bleed, and it pained Teagan to accept this simple fact. The wounds from the occupation were still fresh, while darkspawn and noble infighting were carving fresh ones across the land every day.

It had been almost a week since the Queen had called for a Landsmeet. There she anointed her father, Commander of the Armies. Teyrn Loghain then proceeded to defend his choice of withdrawing his forces at Ostagar. He then expected the nobility to rally under his banner to supply him with a new army.

Teagan had thought the Teyrn had gone mad. This was the Hero of the River Dane: the commoner who became a hero, who rose to nobility and had become a beloved figure throughout Ferelden. His love and devotion to his country was legendary. Now, here he was commanding the Bannorn to bow to his authority.

Had he forgotten what made Ferelden great? What set us apart from the other nations of Thedas?

For Teagan, the Loghain he had known and idolized had died at Ostagar. He held the Hero of the River Dane personally responsible for the death of their king and his nephew…

May you walk at the side of the Maker with your mother and father, Cailan.

Teagan blinked away tears at the thought of his nephew being killed by those monsters. Alone, and abandoned under the shadows at the ruins of Ostagar. He was aware of the stories of the darkspawn dragging men into the bowels of the earth where a fate worse than death awaited those poor souls.

He shuddered at the nightmarish images that cropped up in his mind of Cailan being dragged below, fighting and squirming…

Maker give me strength, Teagan repeated, wiping away the lone tear that had slipped by when contemplating his nephew's fate. He prayed that the Maker had given Cailan courage in those final moments and that his death had been swift and that he felt no pain.

His nephew was too young to be taken from this world. Idealistic, full of life, he brightened every room he walked into. Sincere and engaging, charming, and full of warmth he truly was Maric and Rowan's son.

Now the Theirin line was all but extinguished. It seemed a cruel fate. Only one generation after the rebellion and already the king was dead and Ferelden had once more been plunged into chaos.

Ferelden meant so much to Teagan even if it was a home he hardly knew growing up. He had been forced to leave Redcliffe as a child along with his brother, moving to the Free Marches to live with relatives while their father and sister stayed behind to fight for a free Ferelden.

He could still remember his first few nights in the Free Marches. Teagan had cried every night. He hadn't wanted to leave his father and sister. He hadn't wanted to leave home. It was Eamon who came to him those nights, comforting him and telling him that they would return to Ferelden one day, and that he couldn't cry, he needed to be brave. He needed to make Rowan and father proud.

Unfortunately, he would never see his father again. Rendorn Guerrin perished at the disastrous battle at West Hill. Teagan had been eight.

He would never adjust to the Free Marches during his stay. It never felt like home. It never felt like he belonged there. Eamon would tell him that was because they were Fereldans, and that it was nothing to be ashamed of. Ferelden was there home not the Free Marches. That had always comforted Teagan.

Look at Ferelden now, he thought glumly. 

He was currently riding back to Redcliffe. He and his small party had departed Denerim as quickly as they could after the Landsmeet. His brother had succumbed to a mysterious illness and his presence was needed more in Redcliffe then in Denerim.

It was on the road that Teagan had heard the popular gossip that the Civil War had already started in the form of a lopsided battle that claimed more than fifty of Howe's men. This skirmish was being called the Battle of Pigs, since the majority of the fighting had occurred on a pig farm. It was said that Edmund Cousland had led the rebels against Howe's forces.

"Riders up ahead, Lord Teagan," called one of his scouts.

Shaking himself from his inner reflection, he spotted two armored riders in the middle of the road. It was as if they were waiting for them. The men-at-arms and knights who accompanied Teagan were itching to draw their weapons, but Teagan stayed their hand. 

"Hail, Lord Teagan."

"Hail," Teagan replied civilly, eyeing Bann Loren's sigil.

"The rightful Teyrn of Highever has requested your presence."

"Oh?" Teagan asked, hiding his surprise. He very much doubted that the eight year old Oren Cousland had sent out riders to get him. No, this was a summons from Oren's uncle.

"We are to escort you to Caer Oswin."

"My lord?" asked one of Teagan's knights behind him. His tone was asking the underlying question-what are our orders?

"I would be honored," Teagan smiled. Knowing he couldn't refuse the invitation, and he knew he should be safe with Bann Loren and Edmund Cousland. 

\-----------------------

Teagan stepped into the humble hall of Bann Loren. Despite the room's cramp and crowded conditions, his eyes fell to the young boy standing in front of the main table. Draped in the colors of the Cousland family, he was dressed in the elegant finery of nobility. The Cousland laurels stitched over his heart.

For a second Teagan couldn't help but think of his other nephew, Connor. He wasn't much older than Oren. And if his father didn't recover from his illness then the burden of being the Arl of Redcliffe would pass to his young nephew, Connor.

It saddened Teagan seeing the young boy in front of him. He didn't deserve this. He was a child being asked to be an adult. An orphan forced to forget about what had happened to his family and expected to move forward without dwelling on everything he had lost.

He was small and thin. His short brown hair was unruly, but there were obvious attempts at trying to subdue it. His brown eyes were wide; silently taking in the crowded hall while conveying the growing dread of the responsibilities that was asked of him for this event.

Looking over the boy's shoulder, Teagan spotted the true ruler of this rebellion. Until recently he had been known simply as Edmund the Exile. He remembered the infamous tourney in Highever all those years ago, seeing him in front of him he realized how much he had grown.

Edmund Cousland cut an intimidating presence: tall, broad shouldered, and muscled. He had a true warrior's physique. His expression was stoic. His brown hair was short and curly. His green eyes alert as they rested on Teagan, who understood that he was being appraised by the young man.

There were other familiar faces besides Edmund: Bann Loren, Arl Bryland, Bann Sighard, and Bann Alfstanna within the highest ranks of this resistance, their banners draped on the back wall. This was the main faction and strength of the Bannorn's resistance. Teagan had to admit Edmund had chosen his allies very well. They were not the only sigils on the wall. Loren's hall was draped with many different banners signaling the numerous nobles who had pledged their services in this rebellion.

"Welcome, Lord Teagan," Oren greeted, his voice soft and small within the hall.

Teagan bowed his head and remained silent. Pitying the poor boy at what was being asked of him. At this age, Oren shouldn't be hosting nobles at fancy feasts; he should be outside playing with kids his own age.

"You have the hospitality of Bann Loren," Oren paused, realization dawning on him to add, "And myself for as long as you need it."

It was a simple mistake, Teagan understood. Even though they were in Loren's estate, Oren was the rightful host since he was the Teyrn of Highever and it was serving as headquarters for the rebellion.

"You are very gracious, your Lordship," Teagan winked at Oren hoping to settle the boy's nerves. It looked to have worked since Oren showed him a small, but quick smile. 

"My Uncle has arranged an escort for you and your knights to Lake Calenhad when you are ready," Oren announced. He snuck a glance at his stoic Uncle who stood silently behind him, "For an easier and swifter trip back to Redcliffe."

That surprised Teagan. "You are most kind." He then made a point to meet Edmund's cool silent stare. "I am humbled at your thoughtfulness."

As expected, Edmund did not respond, remaining quiet and impassive.

"We have heard of your brother's misfortune," Oren's voice cracked. "We want you to know that he is in our prayers." The young Teyrn bowed his head, "and we hope that the Maker returns him to us."

"Thank you, your Lordship," Teagan finally straightened up. Seeing the young boy's anxious expression, he sent him a reassuring smile.

Oren took a deep breath, any traces of his previous nervousness disappeared. "Lord Teagan, you would honor us if you joined us for our feast."

"The honor would be mine, Lord Cousland," Teagan replied graciously.

\------------------------

The feasting and drinking had ended, and Teagan had been escorted to his guest chambers for the night. It was a modest sized room, but it fitted him just fine. He preferred the comforts and hospitality of Bann Loren to camping out in the woods or staying in some seedy inn.

The eight year old Teyrn had since retired to his room. During the feast, Teagan had tried his best to coerce the boy into speaking, and was pleased that by the end of the night he had been able to get a few more smiles and laughs out of him. Oren had showed a tremendous amount of strength for what he was doing so soon after the massacre at Cousland castle, and he didn't hide his complete admiration and genuine love for his uncle.

That said uncle had not sat near them. Edmund was at the end of the Teyrn's table. The few glances Teagan had sent that way throughout the meal showed that he was always deep in talks with his uncle, Arl Bryland, and Bann Sighard.

It pained Teagan to see how aloof Edmund had become. Unable or unwilling to treat and care for Oren the way the boy deserved. It was not Teagan's place to judge, but it was impossible for him to ignore. Especially not after the similar circumstances that Teagan had gone through as a child.

He saw a version of himself in Oren. Teagan had been Oren's age when he left Ferelden with his brother to live with relatives. It was also at that age when he lost his father. It was his brother, Eamon who helped him through those trying ordeals. If not for his brother, Teagan was unsure if he would've been able to have coped with so much despair and pain. He had needed his brother in the same way Oren now needed his Uncle.

Putting aside his thoughts on the Couslands led Teagan to still have to ponder what to do moving forward. He found himself between a rock and a hard place. Ferelden was faced with two dire threats-darkspawn and civil war. And something needed to be done to resolve the latter so that the former could be faced by a united Ferelden force.

The army camped outside Caer Oswin was a startling surprise to Teagan when he first spotted them upon his arrival. This was a formidable force. Edmund had mustered the strength of the Bannorn to his cause and was poised to use them in his attempt to reclaim Highever. The main faction of this rebellion was led by Edmund, Bryland, and Loren. All of whom had their perspective clouded by vengeance. They were unable to see the true threat: that of the darkspawn coming from the south.

There needed to be a compromise between the two warring sides or Ferelden would be lost. Yet, how was he supposed to convince them to lay down their arms and forget their rightful grievances against Howe and Loghain? Could he even ask them to make such a sacrifice?

For Ferelden, he had to make the effort. He couldn't allow it to be enveloped and mutilated by the darkspawn. Turning his beautiful and beloved home into a Blighted wasteland, where only desolation and death remained. He had to do something. It wouldn't be simple, or popular, but he had to make his appeal to them. And if he couldn't convince them, then Maker be with them all.

There was a knock on the door. "Milord Teagan?"

"Yes?" Teagan answered, shaken from his musings. He went to the door, opening it to see a young elf servant flanked by two guards.

"Lord Edmund Cousland requests your presence," the elf informed him.

Teagan eyed the two guards before nodding towards the elf, "Very well."

Knowing what he needed to do, he prayed to the Maker for guidance and wisdom. He had an unenviable task ahead of him, but that would not stop him from trying. The stakes were too high. He couldn't help Ferelden during the occupation, but now he could. 

\--------------------------------------

Arriving in Loren's study, Teagan discovered that not only was Edmund Cousland there but so were Arl Bryland and Bann Loren. Between them was a large table, a map of the Bannorn spread across it. Small wooden carvings were dispensed across the map. The resistance had chosen to use the Cousland laurels. There were nearly a dozen of them, painted with the colors of the Cousland sigil. There were a handful of carved and painted brown bears to represent Howe, while the yellow wyvern of Gwaren represented Teyrn Loghain. Their forces were all positioned around the eastern part of Bannorn.

"I hope we did not inconvenience you, Lord Teagan." It was the first time Teagan heard Edmund's voice that night. No, it was the first time he heard his voice in eight years, he silently corrected himself.

"Not at all," Teagan replied smoothly. His eyes remained on the map.

"You do not approve."

Teagan's eyes snapped up to see Edmund's green eyes were watching him closely.

This was his moment. He knew what needed to be said. They might not see it at first, but this was what was best for Ferelden.

"You will lead this country to ruin because of a simple vendetta."

The three men took his words differently. Bann Loren was openly scowling at Teagan, his frustration hardening his features. Arl Bryland did a better job hiding his displeasure, but his frown and the disappointment in his eyes were easy enough for Teagan to read. It was Edmund's reaction that startled Teagan, or lack thereof. Edmund's face remained stoic, as his eyes drifted over the map.

"You think I risk civil war out of selfish desires?" Edmund finally asked. His voice was soft, but the dangerous edge in his tone was clear enough.

"That was not my implication," Teagan defended, believing he was twisting his words around.

"We fight for justice!" Loren argued, "Howe butchered our families!" His face reddening as he went. "Where is the justice for my wife? My son?" He pointed to his family portrait. "Howe is rewarded for his actions, granted the Teyrnir of Highever and the Arling of Denerim!"

Teagan wisely stayed quiet. Knowing it was best to allow the Bann to vent his frustrations. He had been expecting this reaction. He needed them to have calmer hearts and cooler heads if not then his appeal would fall on deaf ears.

"And you want us to do nothing?" Loren's voice reached a crescendo. "To bend meekly to this and accept the fate that our families are now outlaws without trial or proof of any wrong doings!"

"Your families have faced injustices that I can scarcely imagine," Teagan admitted. "I understand your motivation to seek justice but what of the darkspawn amassing in the south? Are they not the true threat?" He looked to them; trying to gauge their reactions to his plea. He needed them to hear his words. Teagan could see their reasoning, now he needed them to see his.

Couldn't they understand that these words were difficult for him to say? He said them because he had an obligation to Ferelden. His father had died for a free Ferelden. His sister had fought for a free Ferelden. Ferelden had to survive. It was the legacy of his family, and it was now his turn to play his part.

"Can you not send envoys to Denerim? Can you not use words and not swords to have your family's honor restored?"

"You think the sword was our first choice?"Arl Bryland crossed his arms. "I heard of the horrors committed at Highever upon our return from Ostagar." His eyes softened at the thought of his sister, the Teyrna Eleanor Cousland who had been killed in the attack. "I had an audience with Teyrn Loghain and I spoke of my grievances and demanded justice."

Bryland's lips formed a thin line as his eyes sharpened, "And he told me that I was overreaching myself and that I was allowing my dislike of Howe to cloud my judgment."

Teagan hid his wince by raising his hand to cover his mouth. 

"As you see, Lord Teagan," Edmund spoke in a calm voice that did not waver in tone or emotion. "We have exhausted our diplopic attempts." He picked up one of the wooden Laurel pieces and placed it across from a Howe bear and a Gwaren wyvern. "They won't hear our words, but they will fear our swords."

They weren't listening. He realized. They refused to acknowledge the real threat.

"You plan on parading Oren at this battle?" Teagan lashed out. He silently cursed himself for allowing his frustrations to leak through. He knew at once how colossal his mistake had been when he saw the fire in Edmund's green eyes.

"I would like a few moments to speak with Lord Teagan privately." 

Neither of them looked surprised by the request. It was clear to Teagan at their reactions that it was Edmund who they were truly following. They may have had the experience, but it was Edmund who was holding this rebellion together. He took their council, but when a decision needed to be made, he made it, and they obeyed it.

"You oppose what I'm doing?" Edmund asked once the two had left.

"I do," Teagan's answered honestly. "This isn't a time for us to be fighting one another."

"This is the time for us to fight the darkspawn."

"It is."

A mocking smile came to Edmund's lips. "United under one banner, but which one?" He asked sarcastically. "Loghain's? Howe's?" He shook his head. "I will not join them."

"So what would you have me do?"

"I would have you look past your own suffering," Teagan noticed the tension in Edmund's shoulders, and the darkened expression that came to his face but he continued, "If you can't then your vengeance could doom Ferelden."

"I will not forget what Howe did to my family."

"Howe is a menace," Teagan admitted, "but he is the kind of man who would allow this country to turn into a blighted wasteland if it meant he could rule it."

"And I'm not?" Edmund's mouth tightened. "You don't think I'd go to similar lengths if it meant bringing Howe to justice?"

"Your parents raised you better than that," Teagan knew his words struck home at the thoughtful expression that came to the young man's face.

"If you want me to choose between Oren and Ferelden then you may not like my answer."

"Fighting the darkspawn is fighting for Oren. You'll be fighting for him to have a better future then he could have otherwise if you let the darkspawn take Ferelden and for this Blight to spread. "

A look of annoyance flickered across the young lord's face. "Just say your peace and be done with it."

"Pardon?"

"I know disappointment when I see it." A wry smile came to his lips. "I understand when I'm being judged." He leaned across the table. "So please, enlighten me."

"That was never my intention," Teagan observed delicately.

That only seemed to further amuse him. "Then what are your intentions?"

"I have a nephew, Connor. He is roughly Oren's age. Allow me to take Oren back to Redcliffe." He noticed Edmund clench his jaw, but he continued. "He can hide and be safe from all this. He can survive."

"I don't want him to survive. I want him to live!" Edmund exploded, his fists slammed down onto the table with such force that the miniature pieces on the map toppled over. His calm and civil persona crumbled to a maelstrom of fury.

"You want him to sneak off in the night like some sort of criminal? Hide in the dark, slinking from shadow to shadow that's the life you're proposing for my nephew."

"No, that's not the life Oren will have."

"I want him to live!" His green eyes flashed like emerald flames. "I want him to live without having to look over his shoulder wherever he goes. I want him to experience freedom, not fear. Peace, not persecution."

"I understand," Teagan replied after a moment's pause. He didn't agree with Edmund, but he understood what he was trying to do. He wanted to protect Oren, and was doing it the only way he knew how. "Just don't forget why you're fighting."

"I won't," Edmund bristled.

"I think you already have," Teagan gently pointed out.

"Oren-"

"Is a boy who just lost his parents," Teagan interrupted, "And you're expecting him not to feel any pain or grief at what he experienced. You want to treat him like he is this emotionless Teyrn."

"I'm only trying to do what is best for him."

"Oren doesn't need a Teyrnir," Teagan argued, "He needs his uncle."

"Enough," Edmund snapped, raising his hand in warning. "I will not allow you to lecture me on how to raise my nephew." He pointed to himself with a hooked thumb. "Oren is mine! He is my responsibility, and I will fight to my last breath to keep him safe!"

"Your death won't help your nephew," Teagan observed attentively. 

To his disappointment, the first major battle of the civil war seemed unavoidable. He had failed here, but he wouldn't fail Ferelden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write the resistance from an outsider's perspective. An unbiased party to observe and reflect on the growing rebellion, its merits, participants and what this meant for Ferelden. 
> 
> I thought Tegan would be a natural fit for this role as well as allowing us to explore his compelling backstory and his family's history that involved their own sacrifices in freeing Ferelden from the Orlesians to further show Teagan's investment in insuring Ferelden would endure.
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	16. Howe

"Mercy, m'lord!"

He looked over his shoulder to see the guilty man on his knees begging. His hands clasped together in front as if praying for the Maker Himself to divinely intervene on his behalf.

That image alone caused Howe to scoff. "Proceed," he instructed his soldiers.

They obeyed without hesitation, binding his hands and placing the noose around the man's neck. In the distance the man's farm was burning, black smoke billowing up from the charred ruins.

This was the price of treason.

"Mercy!" The man was sobbing.

Howe despised that word. It was the last bleating of a guilty man. As if just uttering that useless word gave credence to spare him. It was a word that belonged to the desperate and the devout. It was his fault for his current predicament and now he tried to squirm out of his punishment. He asked for this when he decided to voice his support for the rebellion within the Bannorn.

The guilty were always quick to forget their own blame when judgment sought them out. They feigned innocence, and pleaded for redemption. They deserved nothing, but their rightful punishment.

Carrying out justice and making sure punishments were handed down to the guilty was not dignified work. It wasn't for the squeamish. It was butcher's work. Yet, it needed to be done. Too many nobles didn't have the stomach to administer justice or allowed others to carry it out for them. While other nobles had foolish, soft hearts and were quick to believe any tune the guilty would sing if it meant avoiding the noose.

These soft-hearted nobles would have pardoned the Couslands. Believed their honeyed lies and accepted their gold. Thankfully, for Ferelden, Howe didn't shy away from the gritty work. He had the stomach to oversee the punishments that were deemed appropriate for the Cousland family.

His work never seemed to cease. In the past few days he had been quite busy. There had been many who had tried to rebel against Teyrn Loghain, and each one had to be properly punished. Their lands were put to the torch while some were arrested and hauled back to Denerim for questioning. Most were killed with their bodies put on display as a reminder to what happens to those who unwisely decide to go against them

This case was no different. Howe gave the signal to hang the man. He had grown tired of the man's pleas and sobs. It was silence he now craved.

When it came to the hanging, the man's neck did not instantly break. He squirmed, gasping for breath while his life was slowly strangled away from him. His face contorting into a fixture of pain, and after a few seconds of struggle with one final shudder, he went limp. His body swayed. He was dead.

"Leave his body for the crows," Howe ordered. "And let it serve as a warning."

The army was slowly moving south along the West Road and the Drakon River. A portion of their forces remained behind at the capital. And a few smaller forces were spread out in the Coastlands. The rest were here in a little spot known as Eastern Crossing, a small, forgettable area on the border of the eastern portion of the Bannorn. However, this spot was specifically picked by Teyrn Loghain.

He believed Edmund would be tempted to meet their forces here. With their forces marching south along the Drakon River, Edmund would feel compelled and honor bound to ride out and protect the banns and freeholders who had flocked to his rebellion.

He would think this would be favorable position for himself. It was safely away from Denerim and the Coastlands. With the Bannorn at his back it would provide him with a false sense of safety for his forces. He would be wrong. Fooled, Edmund would unwillingly march his forces into their waiting jaws. This farce of a rebellion would end in one swift defeat.

This threat would soon be over, Howe relished these words. No, not a threat, but a thorn. He corrected himself. He didn't want to give Edmund the satisfaction that this rebel brat ever stood a chance against him. 

For too long, the Theirins, Couslands, Guerrins looked down on his family. They thought themselves better then the Howes. Believed their blood was purer, their lands richer, their titles grander. That was at an end.

When his son ascended to the throne it would start a new age for Ferelden. It would be the Howes who would move Ferelden forward. Who better then the Howes to make Ferelden a rich and strong country? What other family could boast such a history of service? What other family could claim to hold Ferelden's interests more than the Howes?

None, he silently answered. In order for Ferelden to prosper they needed a Howe to guide them.

"Father," Thomas Howe stepped forward to greet him.

"Thomas," He took in his son's appearance. He looked every bit the king that Ferelden needed. Tall, and strong, with an air of authority that could only come from a noble lineage. His hair was brown and kept short, matching his neatly trimmed goatee. He had inherited his eyes, brown and attentive.

He had spared no expense for his son's new commissioned armor. The red steel armor shimmered like dark rubies in the sunlight. It was pristine and oozed royalty. Strapped to his back was his favored waraxe. Unlike his son's armor, his waraxe showed signs of use.

There wasn't much Howe would say about the nasty, vile woman he married. He loathed her and her family, but she had served her purpose. She provided him with an heir and a spare, as well as a daughter that would be used to secure an alliance with another powerful family.

However, his heir was not his eldest, Nathaniel, but his youngest Thomas. Nathaniel had been sent to the Free Marches in the aftermath of the Highever tournament debacle. His eldest had been close friends with Edmund and Anora, and Howe didn't like that reminder. So he sent Nathaniel off, and began grooming Thomas to be his heir.

He never regretted that choice. In the years that followed, under his tutelage his youngest son thrived and began to show the promise of being the next Arl of Amaranthine. Thomas had the stomach to lead. He was stubborn and determined. He wouldn't let anything get in the way of what he wanted.

A trait they shared, Howe smiled.

Thomas had proven himself time and time again. It only seemed fitting that Thomas would be the one to marry the Queen and rule at her side as King. With Thomas, the Howe family would branch off into a separate royal branch. As the patriarch of this new royal family dynasty, Thomas would be the first of many Howes to rule Ferelden.

"Is it true?" Thomas asked.

Shaken from his musings, he could smell the wine on his son's breath.

"It is," Howe answered, a smile coming to his lips at what his son reminded him of. A scout had returned from Edmund's camp and his information had been most welcoming.

The scout had reported that Arl Bryland had only brought a fraction of South Reach's strength. It seemed the main bulk of Edmund's forces were made up of Bann Loren, Bann Telmen, and Bann Sighard. The boy had foolishly left the strength of Highever and South Reach back at Caer Oswin to protect his nephew.

Howe expected no less from this pampered brat. This was just the sort of behavior and arrogance that Howe had been expecting. Yet, this time he welcomed it. It would lead to the boy's undoing. In one swift and deciding battle Howe would wash away the remaining stench and stain of the Cousland name. Their time was done.

"You wanted to see me, Father?"

"I did," Howe confirmed, as the father and son began walking through their army's camp. Lining the pathway was the sigil of Amaranthine. The camp was bustling but every soldier, knight, and servant stopped to bow if they neared the two Howes before continuing their duties.

"Teyrn Loghain and I have need of your talents," Howe began, seeing his son's curious look he continued, "We believe it is fitting for you to lead the vanguard of our forces."

"Good," Thomas stopped, turning to face him. "There is nowhere else I'd rather be."

Howe stopped as well, taking in his son's determined look; a proud smile came to his lips. "I know."

"He won't be leaving the battlefield alive," Thomas reached over his shoulder to put his hand on the hilt of his waraxe. "I'll take his head back to Highever."

"Highever is no longer a concern of yours," he pointed out. "After our victory you'll ride straight to Denerim."

A look of annoyance flickered over Thomas' youthful face, "to marry the ice bitch?"

"The Queen," Howe corrected, glancing around to make sure his son's slip did not go noticed by anyone else. He held no love or respect for their current Queen, but only a fool would voice such things so openly. And Howe didn't raise any fools.

"You know what Cailan use to say about her?" Thomas didn't seem to understand the need for subtlety.

"That is enough," he chided. "You'll wed her, bed her, and get her with a Howe son." He ignored his son's petulant look. "I haven't carried our family this far only to see you mess it up at the end."

"I won't," Thomas bristled. He called for his squire who came forward, carrying a wineskin. Thomas took it, and dismissed the squire. He raised the wineskin in a mock toast. "To the Queen," before tilting his head back and drinking.

Howe snatched the wineskin out of his son's hand. He had heard the gossip about his son: the drunk and the brute. He had always made sure that those who were caught whispering such malicious lies were punished. Nonetheless, Howe didn't want anything that could give that awful gossip any validity.

"I wasn't done!" Thomas protested.

"Yes, you were," Howe glared at him, daring him to challenge his decision. As expected, Thomas didn't. The two resumed their walking. "Do you know who you want to accompany you in the vanguard?"

"I do," he answered, "Ser Temmerly and Ser Timothy have both asked to fight beside me."

That came as no surprise to Howe, he knew the two knights. They were more brutes then soldiers, but they were nevertheless very effective in carrying out their orders. Especially Temmerly, he had a way of inspiring fear and he did always get results. They were good choices.

"I'll also have the White Falcons and the Crimson Oars."

"Mercenaries?" Howe didn't like the idea of sellswords protecting his son.

"Yes, Cristoff told me, he and the White Falcons last job was in Tevinter, fighting those damn Qunari," Thomas said, waving off his concern. "I'm sure they can handle armed peasants."

"Well, I'll still want some of my own men to fight with you," Howe told him. It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order.

Thomas was smart enough to understand. "That's fine," he shrugged, "as long as they don't stop me from killing Edmund Cousland."

"They won't," Howe promised his son.

That honor belonged solely to Thomas. As future king it was expected of him to inspire the forces. Usually, Howe might have been more cautious about his son's position in the battle, but upon learning how Edmund was using his forces it presented an opportunity that Howe couldn't pass up. 

Thomas would lead the vanguard. He would smash the smaller rebel forces. In one battle, the soon to be King of Ferelden would win the war. This battle was going to be their crowning triumph, completely solidifying the Howes as the most powerful family in Ferelden.

\--------------------

That night, Loghain had called his last war council before the pending battle for him to assign his nobles and freeholders their expected responsibilities for the coming battle. It was a small group of mostly nobles from the Teyrnir of Gwaren.

In his limited time around them, Howe quickly learned what cowards they were. It appeared as if the Teyrn had dragged them here from Gwaren. They always voiced their concerns and objections. It seemed they preferred to whine and complain. Why Loghain put up with them was beyond Howe. If he was their liege lord, he never would allow such disrespect to be seen or heard. He would have permanently silenced their complaints and used their fates as an example to others who might have shared similar views.

There was Lord Olsen out of Gwaren. He was considered one of the more powerful nobles in the region. His family owned much of the forested land used for Gwaren's booming timber trade. He was a fat man with thinning blond hair. He had watery eyes and a thick moustache. It was rumored that he was sleeping with his sister's husband.

Along with Lord Olsen there was Benedict Sloan. He hailed from the richest family in Gwaren. They were however merchants and not nobility, having benefited greatly in the aftermath of the Orlesian occupation. They were new money looking into marrying old nobility. His large ears overshadowed his handsome face. He was dressed in the best silverite armor his family could buy.

Bann Ceorlic stood away from the others. He was a crusty old man, whose loyalty to Loghain was unflinching. Yet, he was a twitchy old man who was easily spooked. The way some told it, his own shadow frightened him.

Teyrn Loghain was the last to enter; Ser Cauthrien followed him in before melting into the back part of the tent. Loghain made his way to the sturdy table where the map of Eastern Crossing and the surrounding area was sprawled out. The war pieces of their army's position and the predicted position of Edmund's forces were in place. He gripped the edge of the table with his gauntleted hands before surveying the room, his eyes sharper then the blade he carried.

The others took their positions around the table with Howe in one of the rightfully better spots just across the Teyrn, Thomas stood to his left. Lord Olsen and Benedict Sloan stood at the left end of the table while Bann Ceorlic stood on the right end.

"By now all of you have heard our scout's report," The Teyrn skipped any introductory preamble and went straight for the reason why they were all here.

"Can it be true?" asked Benedict skeptically. He scratched the dark stubble along his jaw line. "It just seems so…"

"Foolish?" Thomas quipped, the corners of his lips tugged upwards.

"Aye, foolish," Benedict agreed.

"It's all true," Howe declared. He had been expecting this reaction from them. "Edmund's a foolish boy. He knows nothing of warfare. He thinks himself in some sort of story."

"It is never wise to underestimate your enemy," Lord Olsen pointed out. He was tentatively running his thumb over his signet ring. 

Howe bristled at the criticism. Who was this man to question his knowledge of battle and strategy? Olsen's fat arse had never been involved in any fighting. He wasn't here to give advice. He was here because of the money he had and the numerous free holders pledged to his family.

"Y-yes," Ceorlic chirped in agreement, "This information seems too good to be true."

"Right you are," Lord Olsen was nodding his head up and down so vigorously, the fat on his neck jiggled.

"The scout counted their numbers," Cauthrien observed.

"Well still," Lord Olsen didn't look convinced, stroking his thick mustache. "This scout could be wrong."

"He's a good scout," Loghain came to the boy's defense. "He has served me faithfully."

"I meant no disrespect, your Lordship," Lord Olsen back pedaled, "I just wanted to voice my concerns."

"And you've voiced them," Loghain turned to him waiting for him to continue in his protest, but he wisely didn't. "Good," the Teyrn of Gwaren nodded. "I'm inclined to agree with Teyrn Howe."

"Thank you, your Lordship," Howe relished in seeing the defeated looks from Lord Olsen and Bann Ceorlic.

"He is a child playing at war."

Just like our previous king, Howe thought. Spoiled and enthralled by the romanticized stories of the rebellion, and thirsty for their own glory these young noblemen actively sought conflicts believing themselves invincible. These young children growing up in the aftermath of the occupation never understood the truth about war. It wasn't glorious. It was messy, bloody, and chaotic. It reeked with death. They were oblivious to these hard truths. It had doomed the foolish King Cailan, and it would doom the arrogant rebel Edmund.

Thankfully, Howe had made sure his children were never told that nonsense.

"I'm sure Edmund loves the sight of his Cousland banners swaying in the breeze. He enjoys watching his soldiers marching and likes to listen to the sound of war drums," Loghain scoffed, "but when the battle starts and its all chaos and death, blood and mud, he will fold." He pushed over the miniature piece representing Edmund's forces.

The others voiced their agreement, but not Howe. He stayed quiet. His eyes transfixed on the piece that Loghain had pushed over, the one resembling Edmund's main forces. 

And with Edmund's defeat, the Howes will reign.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to add a few original characters to fill up Loghain's War Council I hope no one minds. I also created the fictitious location of Eastern Crossing. I found that particular area on the Ferelden map kind of bare and vague so I needed a name and I came up with the unoriginal 'Eastern Crossing.'
> 
> Hope no one minds,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	17. Loren

His legs ached, but he dared not adjust his position.

Loren remained kneeling, hands clasped in front of him. His body protested, but his heart and mind persisted. His soul needed the soothing balm that only prayer could provide him.

His prayers were no longer short and sweet. Not after that night. They were long and carried the names of those he lost. They were heavy with the emotions he grappled with. They were consistent as he always asked for the same thing in each and every one: retribution.

Finishing his prayers, he ended them like he always did with a reciting of one of the passages from the Chant of Light.

"Those who bear false witness and work to deceive others, know this: There is but one Truth. All things are known to our Maker and He shall judge their lies."

Bann Loren opened his eyes.

Putting his hand on the pew in front of him he pushed himself up. It took a little bit of effort, his body was stiff, but he ignored the pain. He sat on the pew waiting until his legs and his back were no longer sore.

He was in the hastily erected Chantry tent that had been put up in the army's encampment.

At the moment, he was the only in attendance, that didn't surprise him. It was on the eve of battle where the 'faithful,' would come in droves seeking the Maker's love and protecting, and affirming their faith in Him, and His bride, the blessed Andraste. 

Loren had never been a warrior. He had been trained in combat and in his younger days had fought off his share of cutthroats and bandits who haunted his roads and tormented those who were under his protection. But he was no longer that young man. Age had crept upon him. He could still ride a horse and wield his family's mace, but his stamina had declined, he grew tired faster and became sluggish sooner.

No one knew of course, the ailments that were afflicting his body. His muscles were strong, but his fingers had become clumsy, and numb. Discomfort would come at mundane tasks and leave behind a fiery twinge of pain that could last for hours on end.

The pain in his fingers wouldn't deter him. There was nowhere else he'd rather be. 

The battle was finally here. The opportunity Loren had been waiting for. He sought retribution to avenge the deaths of his wife and son. He did not fear death. He welcomed it. 

In death, he would be reunited with his Landra and Dairren.

This was where he would choose to die. He wanted to die fighting. It was a good death. It was a quick death. 

To go on living while the bones of his wife and son rotted in the ground was not a life worth living. If he went on living his only companions would be the ghosts of those he lost and his regrets.

There was a particular and painful regret that weighed heavy on his heart.

It is because of me that my son is dead. The confession wrung his insides tightly. He had pushed Dairren to go to Highever. Loren had wanted a stronger connection between his holdings and the Couslands. It had not been an easy thing to secure-Teyrn's squire. He had to cash in a few favors, and passed along many sovereigns before he had successfully positioned his son to be the squire for Teyrn Bryce Cousland. Every freeholder in the Coastlands had wanted that spot for their own children and Loren had gotten it.

Dairren had not been appreciative of his effort. He was never one to fight. Dairren had been soundly beaten in a number of tourneys. He had been convinced that his future was not with a blade, but books. So he threw his effort into his studies and not swordplay.

He had asked to stay at the estate. He had no interest in being the Teyrn's glorified servant. Loren had refused his son's request. He desired advancement for his family and believed close ties with the Couslands offered him the best chance of achieving it. 

In an ironic twist of fate, Loren had secured an unbreakable alliance with the Couslands. Instead of his son becoming close to Teyrn Cousland, it was he who had become close to the Teyrn's son, Edmund.

Oh, Dairren, Tears filled his eyes. My son is gone.

Icy fingers strangled his heart.

No parent should ever outlive their children…

Loren wept.

\---------------------------------------------------

 

"Lord Loren," Nia greeted him with a curtsy.

"It is finished?" Loren was looking around her small tent in hopes of seeing it. He didn't.

"Of course, m'lord," she sounded amused, standing up from her curtsy. "It's over here."

"Good," Loren followed her to the back of the tent. 

A dark blanket was draped over the a section of the wall. She gingerly pulled at it to reveal the beautiful banner behind it.

His heart soared into his throat when his eyes took in the banner. There stitched into the cloth was a stunning and vivid depiction of the faces of his wife and son.

Landra, he mouthed his wife's name.

Her face rested on the top half of the banner. She was beautiful. Her eyes were warm and filled with life. She looked fierce and vigilant.

Dairren, Loren sniffed.

The face of his son was stitched on the bottom half of the banner. Handsome and stoic, while his eyes showed a maturity and wisdom that went beyond his young age.

He swallowed the sob that threatened to spill from his throat when his eyes met the stitched eyes of his son. His legs buckled, and he reached out for a nearby seat to keep his balance. He tightened his grip when he noticed his hands were trembling. He felt the grief gnawing away at him upon seeing their faces in front of him…

Maker be with me.

They would be his guardians. This banner was going to be his sigil now. He would carry this in the coming battle. He forfeited the sigil of his ancestors. Let the faces of his wife and son watch over him now.

"What do you think?" Nia asked tentatively.

"It's perfect," he praised, "I couldn't have asked for anything finer."

"I'm glad," she sounded relieved. "It was an honor."

He could understand her apprehension. The commission he had requested wasn't an easy one. It was personal and fragile, and one slight miscue would have easily botched it. That was why he had entrusted it to Nia. She never failed him.

"Lord Loren?"A timid messenger poked his head through the tent flap.

"Yes," he called over his shoulder.

"Your presence is requested for the war council, m'lord."

"I understand," Loren's eyes remained on his newly commissioned sigil. "I'm on my way."

\--------------------------------------

Entering the tent Lord Loren was surprised at seeing more than twenty nobles in attendance. What didn't surprise him was that the majority of them were shouting at one another. The Bannorn was notorious for old grudges, stubborn nobles, and independent freeholders. Yet, if this infighting could not be stopped they would lose this war before it ever began.

The ones that were fighting were made up of the smaller Banns, freeholders, knights, and wealthy families. They weren't powerful or influential as the main faction, but had pledged their services and had given enough to be given an invitation to this war council. Loren was beginning to think it was a mistake to have invited them in the first place.

Deeper in the tent was where the main faction of the resistance was. The main faction was made up of a handful of nobles including himself who had supplied the most men, money, and supplies for the resistance. None of them were fighting or shouting and were gathered around the table where the maps of Eastern Crossing were spread out.

It was there that Loren got a good sight of the young lord who was tasked with uniting these diverse, but squabbling nobles under one banner. Edmund Cousland stood surveying the bickering that took place in front of him. A look of disapproval in his green eyes, but he did nothing to stop the quarreling. His faithful and intelligent mabari, Sarim stood at his side, vigilant and protective of his master.

The young lord was a very grim man. It saddened Loren to see someone so young be so dour, but he couldn't fault the young lord for his gloomy demeanor. In his young life Edmund has experienced a number of trials that would've broken weaker men. He was exiled for a time, forced to leave his home; having only returned to Ferelden on a royal pardon that came on the heels of losing his wife in Orlais. He then lost his parents to Howe's betrayal and his brother at Ostagar.

With all of this turmoil there was still no sign of any wear or tear. Edmund trudged forward because he still had Oren. 

Loren had nothing.

The Cousland name would carry on, but Loren's line had ended. He had accepted that. He was on a different path then Edmund; the young lord sought to protect his nephew and restore his family's name. While Loren only sought justice for the death of his family. After that, he would find the peace he needed.

The Cousland and Highever sigil was firmly and proudly on display behind Edmund. These were the only sigils in the tent. He stood by himself on one side of the table while on the other side stood the other members of the main faction of this resistance.

There was Bann Alfstanna. She had been one of the suitors that Loren had been considering approaching for his Dairren. A look of annoyance flickered over her pretty face, but a smile came to her lips when she met Loren's eyes. It was a sad smile. He recognized it so easily now. He was on the receiving end of these smiles wherever he went since the death of his wife and son. His peers no longer knew how to approach or speak to him so they settled with giving him those sad smiles.

There was also Bann Sighard, with him was his son, Oswyn. Bitterness churned in Loren's stomach, he tried to squash the jealousy that rose in his throat like bile, but it was difficult. Seeing the father and son together cut Loren deep. It was a gut wrenching reminder of his Dairren.

The father and son looked on with bemusement at the infighting. When Sighard's eyes fell on Loren, his hand instinctively went to his son's shoulder. The gesture didn't surprise Loren, he was after all a walking reminder of how precious your family is and how quickly they could be taken away.

Lord Bryland was the only dressed in armor. The Arl of South Reach, and Edmund's uncle, his presence was a surprise to Loren. He hadn't been expecting the Arl this soon. He was supposed to be leading the march of his and Highever's forces, who had been delayed behind their own. His appearance seemed to signal that the South Reach and Highever forces were already here or near by. The veteran of the rebellion against Orlais had no qualms in displaying his disgust and disapproval of their squabbling allies.

The last one was Bann Telmen. He was wearing a smug look, and unlike the others was the only one who was watching the infighting with any interest. He was even talking to several of the fighting nobles. It left Loren with an uneasy feeling watching Telmen interact with some of these banns.

"You need to rein them in, Edmund," Leonas advised his nephew.

"Let them tire themselves out," Edmund was indifferent to the infighting amongst his ranks. "They're stubborn they won't look kindly to being reprimanded by me."

"Still," he paused, as if weighing his nephew's counterargument. "In order to win battles your men must be united and disciplined."

"They don't want me to lead them," Edmund observed.

"Who cares what they want," Leonas dismissed this obstacle. "If it was up to them they'd all be leading or trying to."

"That would be a sight to see," Edmund's lips twitched, he then turned in Loren's direction for the first time. "Lord Loren."

"Lord Cousland," Loren joined them at the table. "I apologize for my tardiness."

"You didn't miss anything," Edmund informed him, before his eyes went back to the squabbling lords.

How could he be so calm and indifferent about all of this madness? Loren wondered. Taking in the sight of the infighting was a bit disheartening for him. These were their allies, and they seemed more intended on fighting each other then Howe and Loghain. It didn't settle his nerves upon seeing Edmund's detachment of it all. He knew the young lord had a tough way ahead of him. Most of these nobles were older than him and were going to test Edmund to see what they could and couldn't get away with.

"But he did miss something," Lord Telmen pointed out, breaking through Loren's musings. As if on cue, the fighting amongst the other nobles immediately stopped and they all went quiet.

Neat trick, Loren thought.

"Lord Loren, you missed another fine example of misplaced Cousland honor and mercy," Telmen said boldly.

"What did I miss?" 

"Our esteemed leader," Telmen drawled, "Allowed Loghain's scout to return to their camp with information about our numbers!" A wave of voices roared their disapproval at this statement.

"It is true, I let that scout go, but it wasn't done out of some sort of Cousland mercy." Edmund's eyes sharpened at the last words, glaring at Bann Telmen, who had been unwise in his slandering of the Cousland family's reputation.

"Then please Lord Cousland, enlighten us," Telmen's last words got a few guffaws from the crowd which only bolstered his confidence.

"You say they know our numbers?" Edmund posed his question to Telmen.

"They do," Telmen confirmed.

"Then please tell me this: how could he count the forces of Highever and South Reach when they were not even here?"

A ploy, Loren realized. It was enough to make him laugh. 

Edmund had been toying with Telmen the whole time. He had wanted Telmen to bring up the freed scout. In one swift move Edmund had now identified his dissenters, discredited Telmen, and firmly secure his grip of control over the forces.

That was why Bryland was here now. Edmund had kept them away to fool the scout and in turn mislead Loghain and Howe. They would think that Edmund was without Highever and South Reach forces and react accordingly...

Silence greeted his revelations. His words and the meaning behind them were slowly sinking and settling within the rest of the audience.

Telmen's confident expression was wiped cleanly from his face. In that moment, he realized he had been beaten and had the good sense to look it.

"The scout counted only the vanguard." Edmund broke the silence.

"What good does that do us?" Telmen asked cautiously.

"Howe and Loghain will believe themselves to have the superior forces and will carelessly march to meet us," Edmund revealed.

"And I take it you have a plan?"

The slow smile that came to Edmund's lips answered that question. He then outlined his strategy. It was risky, especially for the forces that needed to serve as the bait to execute the ambush. However, with Howe and Loghain unaware of the Highever and South Reach forces it could work.

Brilliant, Loren mentally praised. Looking up from the map to see a growing smile on Arl Bryland's face with a look of pride flickering in his dark eyes which were on his nephew.

"They will expect me being reckless and will not think twice about our few numbers," Edmund was finishing up. "They're expecting a green boy."

"A green boy, indeed!" barked someone in the crowd, earning laughs and cheers from others.

Edmund raised his hand and the crowd quieted down. "In order for this ruse to work, I will lead the forces that will serve as the bait." There was a roar of voices at this stunning revelation. None louder in their protests then Edmund's uncle, but he ignored them as he pressed on. "I cannot ask to put my men in danger, if I am unwilling."

It was the riskiest role in the battle. They would face the brunt of the attack before the ambush of the Highever and South Reach forces could move in position to strike.

"Edmund, you can't," Bryland tried to reason with his nephew. "You're too important!"

"I'm not the important Cousland, Uncle." There was sadness in his eyes. "My nephew Oren is irreplaceable not me."

"If we are to win this war then we cannot lose you in the first battle!"

"It has to be me," Edmund was determined. "Anyone else leads those forces they may smell a trap." He moved the laurel pieces forward on the map. "If it's me who leads the forces they'll expect it's my inexperience and vanity showing."

"You won't be fighting alone, Lord Cousland," Loren spoke up. "Howe took my wife and my son," he felt tears in his eyes, but he carried on, remembering their faces on his newly created sigil. "I believe this is where I will make my stand."

Disbelief flickered in his green eyes before Edmund nodded. He then moved around the table towards him. "We will make many stands together."

The conviction in his tone was so ensnaring, Loren wanted to believe him. If only he knew the truth of the matter, Loren thought sadly. 

"I'm coming with you," Oswyn spoke up, "I'll lead my father's forces."

There was concern in Sighard's eyes, but there was also acceptance. The father nodded after some hesitation, a final blessing for his son's decision.

It wasn't lost on Edmund. He glanced over towards Sighard before returning his attention to Oswyn. "Then we shall fight together."

Oswyn smiled and nodded, shaking Edmund's hand before he moved to rejoin his father. Sighard's hand went to his son's shoulder and did not let go.

"I'd like to go as well, my lord," Telmen stepped forward. "I would be honored to fight alongside you."

"The honor is mine, Lord Telmen," Edmund shook Telmen's hand.

Looking out into the faces of the crowd, Loren realized that Edmund's courage and cunning was helping to win them over. How could they complain about slights in terms of their roles when Edmund had volunteered himself for the most dangerous part? Their grievances all of a sudden seemed petty and unimportant.

The Bannorn is fickle, he reminded himself. Yet, seeing their responsive faces and their willingness to listen to Edmund's instructions was a welcome sight. It gave him hope for their cause.

And for that Loren was thankful.


	18. Edmund

Edmund's throat burned. His eyes were bleary. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve to remove any lingering trace of bile.

He looked down at the contents from his stomach. 

Thankfully, he missed his boots. 

This was the second time he had thrown up this morning. His nerves still weren't satisfied as his protesting stomach continued to rumble. He went back into his tent, Sarim who was lounging under the table, raised his head at his entrance, a look of concern shimmering in his dark eyes.

"I'm fine, Sarim," Edmund appreciated his mabari's concern.

"M'lord?" Nara, one of Loren's estate servants who was traveling with the army appeared. She was holding a goblet of water.

"Thanks," he drank greedily. The cool water soothed his burning throat. He thought it was natural to be a little apprehensive before battle; after all, nothing was certain in battle besides death. He felt her eyes on him. "I'm fine." 

She didn't seem convinced.

"If the bards ever write song about this battle let's hope they leave this part out," he remarked dryly. 

Nara's lips tugged upwards. "Your secrets are safe with me, m'lord." She took the empty goblet from him, "More water, m'lord?"

"No, thank you." The last thing he needed was to have to take a piss in the middle of the battle.

"Will that be all, m'lord?"

"Yes, thank you," he looked at his armor which was still on its stand. It was finely crafted silverite armor. It had been a gift from his Uncle.

"I'll be praying for your victory and safe return, m'lord," she curtseyed and moved to leave.

"Wait," he turned to see confusion flicker across her face.

"M'lord?"

"What are your duties during the battle?" 

"Packing up your tent and belongings, m'lord."

"If the battle goes poorly," he paused, "I want you to run."

"M'lord?" She was baffled. Whether it was because of his sudden orders or him bringing up the notion they would lose the battle.

"I'm ordering you to flee if the battle goes poorly for our side," he repeated, "Forget my belongings, forget all of this." He gestured to his tent. "I want you to just… run."

"But-"

"No," he cut her off. She didn't understand why it was important for her to leave. 

Edmund remembered the atrocities that were committed during the attack of Cousland Castle. Loyal servants to his family who were brutally raped and then put to the sword. He had failed them, and if he could prevent it from happening again, he would. 

"You have to run," he moved towards her. "Get all of the servants and go." He thought about putting a hand on her shoulder, but he stopped himself. "It won't be safe for any of you…"

Realization flickered across her face, "I will, m'lord." She looked at her feet. "I'll get the others, and run."

"Good," He was relieved.

"Thank you, m'lord," she looked back up at him. Her eyes shimmered with appreciation for his warning.

He stiffly nodded. He didn't feel like he needed to be thanked. To him, it was the expected thing to do. They may not be fighting, but the servants were still under his protection. It was his responsibility to lookout for their well being, win or lose.

\-----------------

Edmund examined the young men and women standing in front of him: fresh faces, bright eyes, and confident smiles. They were eager and ready. He remembered a time when he was like that; before he was hardened by the experiences that could only come on the field of battle. 

Behind them were the main sigils of their fighting forces, the standards were swaying in the breeze. The Cousland and Highever standards were in the center. To the left of them was the newly minted standard of Bann Loren, the faces of his wife and son were adorned on the banner.

When he closed his eyes he could still see the blood soaked floors, their bodies peppered with cuts and slashes, fear and pain permanently etched on their faces. Edmund took a breath to steady himself, pushing down the memory of that night. He turned to the next standard needing a further distraction to prevent his mind from returning to those painful memories.

On the other side of Lord Loren's was the sigil of Dragon Peak, a crescent moon on its back with a handful of stars below it. On the other side of his family banners was the sigil of Lord Telmen: A flying raven on a blue field.

"Lord Cousland, we fight for you!" This sent a cheer through the ranks as others whistled and hit their shields in support.

"You honor me," Edmund took in their excited faces. He moved over to the soldier who had shouted. "May I have your name?"

The soldier's eyes widened, "I-its Geoffrey, m'lord."

"Geoffrey," Edmund greeted him with a smile, laying his hand on the man's shoulder. "I appreciate your courage and your service."

"The Couslands have always been good to my family."

"Have you been to Highever, Geoffrey?"

Geoffrey's brows furrowed, "no, m'lord."

"Can I ask something more of you, Geoffrey?" Edmund asked, while his eyes surveyed the others.

"Anything, m'lord," Geoffrey perked up.

"When we're fighting I don't want you fighting for the Couslands or Highever," Edmund saw the flicker of confusion on Geoffrey's face and other soldiers who were sending him puzzled looks. "When you're fighting, I want you to fight for the men and women beside you." To make his point he put his hand on the soldier standing on Geoffrey's right. It was a young woman, with a freckled face, and brown eyes. 

"M'lord?" Geoffrey didn't seem to understand. He wasn't the only one.

"Fight for them," Edmund emphasized, "The men and women beside you are depending on you. Their life is in your hands. Fight for their survival." He gently squeezed her shoulder before letting go, but was pleased to see understanding in her eyes at what he was asking of them.

"I will, m'lord."

"Good," Edmund clapped him on the shoulder. "I could not ask for better men and women then those I see in front of me." He walked in between the rows of soldiers. He wanted to see as many faces as he could. They were fighting for his family because they were commoners and he was nobility. He owed it to them to remember their sacrifices.

"You honor my family with your service. We will be in your debt." He was trying to commit more of their faces to memory. "Your efforts will not be forgotten. Your families will not be ignored."

"This is only the beginning." While he moved between the soldiers: He clapped some on the shoulder, others he shook their hands. He wanted to look them in the eyes. "The worst is only ahead of us, but if we stay together, fight for one another then we will be triumphant!"

A clamor of cheers and shouts from the soldiers was deafening. They clapped their shields, or their breastplates, chanting: "Couslands!" "Highever!"

It was time.

\--------------------------

The screams and shouts came from all directions.

He ignored them. In order to survive he had to.

Edmund Cousland surveyed the battlefield around him. Bodies were strewn about; the soil was soaked by the blood of allies and enemies alike. Banners and sigils from both sides were scattered throughout, waving weakly on broken poles. While commoners, knights, and nobles continued to fight, kill, and die for their pledged liege lords.

The battle was going according to plan. Edmund had led the forces into battle. Howe and Loghain's had taken the bait and marched to meet him. When the sides clashed, chaos erupted. He was soon separated from Loren, Oswyn, and Telmen. Unbothered, Edmund continued to fight his way through the enemies' ranks with his faithful mabari at his side.

"There he is!" cried a soldier.

Edmund turned to see three men approach him, one in leathers, one in chainmail, and one in red steel. It was the one in red steel who he believed to be their leader. A white falcon with its wings outstretched was the heraldry emblazoned on their armor. It took him a second to realize that their heraldry wasn't of a noble Fereldan family, but a mercenary guild-the White Falcons.

Sarim growled at Edmund's side, bearing his sharp teeth. Already covered in the blood of the countless men his mabari had killed.

"Easy, Sarim," Edmund gripped his sword tightly.

"That's him, Cristof," the one in leathers sounded giddy.

The one called Cristof was the one dressed in the best armor, red steel, and was carrying a silverite waraxe. The tip of which was dripping with blood and bits of flesh.

"It looks like it," Cristof was eyeing Edmund and then Sarim.

"What about Howe's orders?" The one in chainmail asked.

"Forget those orders," the one in leathers rebutted, "I want that bounty!"

"That's right," Cristof agreed, "Thomas will just have to settle for his head."

"Go," Edmund ordered Sarim, watching the trio of mercenaries move forward. His mabari whined, but he relented, snapping his teeth at the mercenaries, before he ran away.

"What about the hound?" 

"Forget that mangy dog," Cristof growled.

Edmund raised his shield and charged wanting to take them off guard. 

The one in leathers yelped, jumping backwards, Cristof carefully stepped out of the way, leaving Edmund's shield connecting with the one in the chainmail who stumbled backwards, and Edmund quickly took advantage of the man's awkward footing. He unleashed a flurry of strikes with his sword. Already off balanced, the man never stood a chance, barely deflecting the first, while the second cut deep into his arm, wincing and dropping his sword. Edmund followed through with a devastating swing that broke through the chainmail and cut into flesh.

The man was dead on his feet with Edmund's sword lodged in his chest. He pulled it out in a swift tug just in time to deflect an attack from Cristof. Who was wielding his silverite axe paired with an unassuming dagger. He was quick with his strikes but Edmund was quicker in his blocks, deflecting the axe and dagger away from his body. The axe had an unnatural hue to its tip and seeing the scorch marks it left behind on Edmund's shield made him realize that the axe had been enchanted.

Frustrated, Cristof stepped backwards, no doubt trying to reassess his strategy. It was clear he hadn't been expecting Edmund to be much of a challenge. He kept his axe and dagger raised in a defensive position while he plotted his next move

It was then from the corner of his eye that Edmund saw Sarim. The two mercenaries had forgotten about the war hound, and that would be their undoing. Sarim lunged at the man in leathers, who cried out in surprise before he was dragged to the ground by the ferocious mabari.

Using Sarim's sudden appearance to his advantage Edmund reengaged in his fight with Cristof. The mercenary deflected Edmund's strikes, spinning out of reach from his sword, before suddenly appearing at Edmund's side. Cristof swung his axe in a high arc aiming to cut Edmund's head clean off, Edmund ducked the strike and then slammed his shield into Cristof's face. Reeling, Edmund never let him recover; he followed his shield bash with his sword, cutting deep into the flesh of Cristof's neck, instantly killing the mercenary. His head lolled to the side, to reveal just a sliver of flesh that was keeping it attached to his shoulders.

Turning to see that Sarim had handled the last mercenary without issue. Edmund went over to Cristof's corpse, inspecting the axe the mercenary carried. It looked like a unassuming axe, but having seen its magical enhancements in battle, Edmund was not deceived by its simple appearance. He pulled the axe out of the dead mercenary's hand. It was warm to the touch, like it had been resting too close to the fire. Upon further inspecting, he noticed on its handle a single name was engraved into it: Aodh.

Impressed, Edmund slid the newly acquired axe into his belt.

"Cousland," growled a familiar voice. Thomas Howe stood a few feet from him, holding his waraxe. 

Sarim growled from his position over the dead mercenary.

"No, Sarim," Edmund stopped his mabari from attacking. "This is my fight."

That got a chuckle out of Thomas.

Edmund launched himself at the youngest Howe. Thomas deflected the strike easily enough. He took a few steps to put some distance between him and Edmund, and to regain his footing. Edmund refused to give him space. He knew the waraxe needed some room to properly maneuver in order to be effective. So he was determined to stick to Thomas like a shadow.

Clearly frustrated, Thomas was still able to parry Edmund's strikes with his waraxe. While moving backwards to try to create some separation.

Edmund didn't relent. He raised his sword high aiming for Thomas' head, but the youngest Howe was able to just block it with a part of his waraxe. Edmund then brought up his shield, swatting away the waraxe. He then moved again with his sword, in a high cutting arc, and Thomas' waraxe again arrived just in time to deflect the strike. 

Thomas pushed all of his weight forward, letting out a primal cry.

Edmund deftly moved backwards, angling his sword to release it from the waraxe, and raised his shield in a defensive posture in time to block Howe's strike. Edmund gritted his teeth, as his shield absorbed the forced behind the swing. A strum of pain shot up his arm.

He pushed off with his shield to get Thomas off balance. It worked. He followed it with a low swing with his shield, which Thomas went to deflect with his waraxe, not seeing the coming sword strike that punctured his armor beneath his shoulder. He cried out in pain, when the sword bit into the flesh of his unprotected armpit, but Thomas miraculously kept a tight hold on his waraxe.

His countenance immediately darkened, while his eyes clouded over with fury. Thomas bellowed an animalistic like shout before charging Edmund.

Surprised, Edmund raised his sword just in time to parry the waraxe, trying to move forward to apply the pressure on Thomas and to keep a tight space between them. Undeterred, Thomas swung his waraxe again, this time in a low arc trying to cut Edmund in two. He jumped back to avoid the swing, watching as Thomas effortlessly raise the waraxe over his head before bringing it down where Edmund was standing.

Edmund now found himself on the defensive. He moved back to avoid the sundering strike that would have crushed him inside his armor. Thomas continued his assault, wielding the heavy waraxe with ease. It was now Edmund who was reeling.

The blade of the waraxe hooked onto the edge Edmund's shield and with a quick tug pulled it out of Edmund's grip. He watched helplessly the shield clatter onto the ground out of reach.

Sensing victory, Thomas pressed forward with his advantage. Edmund deflected the strike that was aimed for his chest, his sword and Howe's axe clashed, spitting sparks from the two steel blades. With his other hand he retrieved his newly acquired axe, Aodh. He was surprised, by how comforting the axe's warm touch felt in his fingers. In an undercut swing, Aodh connected with Thomas' chest plate. The armored singed under Aodh's tip.

Panicked, and surprised, Thomas lowered his eyes on his now smoldering armor.

Using the distraction Edmund's sword met Thomas' right hand, blade cut through bone and flesh, severing the hand at the wrist. The hand and waraxe dropped to the ground as Thomas cried out in pain falling to his knees, gripping his bloody stump. His eyes were defiant while his lips curled in a sneer. "My father-"

"Is next," Edmund finished, decapitating him in one fluid strike. He ignored the geyser of blood that sprayed out from his neck. Edmund's eyes followed Thomas' head which bounced into the dirt with a soft, squishy thud. The youngest Howe's face permanently etched to show his haughty defiance.

Edmund let loose a tired breath.

Sarim was by his side in an instant. 

"You wouldn't have let him kill me, right, boy?" He returned Aodh to his belt, pleased at how handy the axe had been.

Sarim barked.

"I thought so," Edmund picked up his discarded shield. He looked to see the Cousland laurels emblazed on the front were covered in blood and mud. He then slid his arm through the shield straps. His body was sore, but he could not rest. The battle still waged around him.

He looked up for any sight of his Uncle's banners. They weren't there.

Andraste give me strength, he prayed.

Fear had soured his stomach. He tried to fight it, but he couldn't ignore it. Unsure, how much longer his spirited, but smaller forces could endure the full brunt of Howe and Loghain's army. If the forces of his Uncle did not come soon, then he and everyone else would perish under the full might of their enemies.

Edmund had known the decision he had made to split up his forces had been a gamble, and it seemed he had lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those this disappointed, I apologize. Battle/fighting scenes are not my strength.
> 
> Next chapter will be the second and final part of the battle.
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> Spectre4hire


	19. Cauthrien

Bring him back alive.

Those were her orders.

She would not fail her Teyrn.

So she moved through the battlefield with summer sword in her hand. Cutting down any rebel she came across. The greatsword had been gifted to her by Loghain to help her in this mission. Already, its claimed a handful of lives. 

Cauthrien surveyed the surrounding area looking for any sign of the rebel that was responsible for this battle. She saw blood, death, and chaos but there was no sign of Edmund Cousland. She kept moving. Aware of her surroundings and poised to strike at a moment's notice.

The bards liked to write battles filled with beauty and honor. What they never wrote about was walking through the slush of blood, piss, entrails, limbs and bodies of both enemies and allies.

A young man in leathers suddenly jumped out in front of her flashing two daggers. He rained a flurry of strikes in her direction. Cauthrien deflected the blades with summer sword, and those she could not, she dodged and avoided with her feet. She quickly adjusted her grip on her greatsword, carefully holding the blade between her hands before leading with a thunderous blow with the pommel of her greatsword. It connected with the man's face with a loud crack.

He yelped in pain, his nose crushed, blood was gushing out while the skin below his eyes began to swell and bruise. She put him out of his misery by delivering a heavy strike that punctured leather, flesh, and lungs. His body crumpled to the ground.

"To me!" a voice carried over the sounds of screams. It commanded strength and demanded to be heard.

She followed the voice to find its source. It was him. Edmund Cousland was in the thick of the fighting. He was with more than a dozen soldiers. They had formed a tight diamond formation, helping to repel the encroaching fighters who were beginning to outnumber their position.

"Rally to me!" Edmund cut down a man in chainmail while his war-hound tackled another to the ground. It was a sight to behold. The warrior and hound complimented one another perfectly. They worked as one. They were a force to be reckoned with if the growing pile of bodies gathered around them was any indication.

Maker be with me, she sent up her prayer before making her way towards Edmund and his stubborn group of fighting rebels. She knew this would be a challenge. She remembered Edmund Cousland had been one of the more skilled swordsmen in Ferelden before his exile. He had won countless melee tourneys but this was no tournament. This was battle. There would be no blunted swords. It was real steel. Noble blood and wealth would not save you. It would be skill, and guile.

One of Edmund's fighters spotted her and charged. She sidestepped his clumsy strike. His inexperience was on full display. He recovered by trying to throw another blow with his sword, but his form gave away his movement, and summer sword was there to deflect the strike.

Having enough, she swatted his sword away, and plunged her greatsword into his chest. He was dead on impact. She pulled the blade out of her victim with a tug, stepping over the body and continued her approach towards her target.

In that moment she despised Edmund Cousland. He was to live due to his noble blood while the commoners were nothing but fodder, condemned to die. 

Another fighter came to her. This one was wearing shimmering armor and was equipped with a waraxe. She knew his type without ever needing to know his name. He was of wealth. Who yearned for glory, and was excited to finally be able to prance around in the armor his father had bought him in an actual battle.

He led with a wide swing to try to keep her back, but it only worked for a second as soon as the waraxe swung past. She moved forward, his one move confirming her belief he was a novice with the weapon he wielded. She understood the details needed to master the great two handed weapons. Patience, movement, and space, in his first move he sacrificed all three.

Summer sword connected with its target, hitting the flesh just above his collarbone; that was unprotected by his polished armor. He responded with a wet gurgling sound, coughing up blood. In that moment of realization, fear seized him, eyes wide and frantic. His lips quivered, but no words came out, just gurgling. 

Cauthrien tugged her greatsword out of him, watching him collapse onto the ground, his life blood leaking out of his wound.

Damn you, Edmund Cousland.

It was as if he heard her thoughts. He looked up from where he was fighting. His green eyes met her grey ones. He moved towards her, but not before cutting down a soldier who thought Edmund was distracted. He hadn't been. He handled the soldier with ease; his sword opening the soldier up from hip to shoulder.

This is it. She readied herself, never taking her eyes off her target. He walked with a deadly grace, every step carefully thought out, each movement was precise. His mabari moved beside him. His sword and shield raised and ready to be used as he moved closer. When he was within speaking range she gave him Teyrn Loghain's message.

"By order of Loghain Mac Tir, I order you to surrender your arms and no harm will come to you." She had to shout in order for her voice to carry over the battle mayhem that surrounded them.

The corner of his mouth slowly rose upwards. He raised his shield and angled his sword, the tip of the blade pointing at her.

Very well, Cauthrien positioned herself, raising summer sword. If he would not submit to her words then he would submit to her sword. She waited for him to strike, but he did not move. She looked over towards his mabari, believing that perhaps Edmund would send his hound in first, but the mabari stayed where it stood.

Edmund took a step towards her, but still made no attempt to attack.

This wasn't what she was expecting. She had learned long ago the art of fighting pampered noblemen. They were prickly about their pride. None of them wanted to be humiliated by losing to a woman. So they usually launched themselves at her, using their aggression and strength in an attempt to overwhelm her and earn a quick victory.

She taught herself to endure that opening fury of her opponent. Once she weathered the initial barrage then she would strike, when they were tired and reeling. It was a strategy that had worked for her since the day she first picked up a sword.

All around men and women were fighting and dying, allies and enemies littered the ground, blood and guts soaking into the soil, except here on this sliver of land where it was just her and Edmund.

Growing impatient at his stillness and wanting to end this battle to stem the casualties, she made the first move. She came at him high with summer sword; he swatted the greatsword away with his shield like it was a pest. She took a step back, looking towards his mabari, wary of the hound's ferocious nature and its deadly skill, but the mabari remained where it was.

Satisfied that the hound wasn't going to attack her, she turned back towards Edmund. His lips were curved to form an annoying smirk that was being directed at her. She moved again instead of going high she thrust the greatsword low and inside, he parried the blow away from him, directing it outwards. He then followed it with a lazy swing of his shield which she deftly sidestepped, before bringing summer sword back up in case he moved again, but he didn't.

Then he attacked. Aiming for her side with his sword, she brought summer sword to deflect, before repositioning her grip on the greatsword to allow her to push forward in an attempt to catch him off balance or loosen the grip of his sword: Neither happened.

Instead, he followed through with his shield trying to bash her face in, she ducked and moved her greatsword to lead with her pommel going for his stomach, but he was expecting that, his sword was there to deflect the pommel strike. It left her side open and he took advantage, swatting her with his shield to catch her off balance. She dug her boots into the muddy ground to keep her footing, knowing that if she stumbled she'd fall right onto his sword.

Cauthrien shrugged off the stinging sensation that climbed up her side from where his shield had smashed into her. Tightening her grip on her greatsword she attacked again, this time feigning high in an effort to catch him off guard, he raised his sword to deflect, and at the last minute she changed direction of her greatsword aiming for his chest, he moved his shield in time as the tip of the blade scraped against it harmlessly.

Edmund then pushed forward, leading with his shield, shoving aside her sword before sending his blade in for a low thrust. Cauthrien had to spin out of the way to avoid the blade. She tried to use her momentum in delivering a sundering blow, but Edmund seemed to be expecting it, jumping out of reach from the powerful attack. She pulled summer sword back into a defensive position.

His sword suddenly connected with her greatsword, sparks spat between the two blades, a song of steel. He pulled back his sword and struck again, she met his blade with summer sword. Their blades were locked together. Their faces only inches apart, he was still wearing that incredibly annoying smirk. As if this duel between them was nothing but downright amusing to him. She wanted to wipe that look off of his face.

Looking over his shoulder, she realized her mistake. His mabari was gone. Before she could react she felt something smash into her from behind, losing her balance, she tumbled forward. And then she tasted blood from where his shield connected with the side of her face. She hit the ground-hard.

Her hands fumbled in search of summer sword, but she could not find it, knowing she needed to adapt, she tried to push herself up, but he wouldn't let her. He smashed the pommel of his sword against the other side of her face. Her head rocked backwards connecting with the soft ground.

She saw stars. She felt her face begin to swell from the bruising, the tingling feeling of pain only intensified. She looked up to see him standing over her. His sword pointed at her. At Edmund's side his fierce mabari who had tackled her from behind.

This was it, she realized.

There was no fear. She wasn't gripped by panic. She knew where she was going once Edmund ended her life. She closed her eyes and waited for the painful end that would lead her to a painless eternity.

It didn't come.

A war horn blew: deep and loud.

Cauthrien opened her eyes.

More horns joined, bellowing like a clap of thunder: Announcing their arrival.

Appearing on the left side of the battlefield were dozens of banners that were flapping in the breeze, displaying the standards of the Couslands, Highever, South Reach, Waking Sea, and the numerous other major and minor nobles and freeholders. Behind the banners hundreds of men began emerging in formation. Joining their voices to the horns, the sound was deafening and terrifying.

In that moment of awe and fear Cauthrien realized they had all been fooled. Edmund's army was never at Caer Oswin it was with him all along. The rebel who Howe and even her own Teyrn deemed a child playing at war had just successfully outmaneuvered them.

Before she could fully breathe in the incredible sight in front of her, before she could truly comprehend the ramifications of the mistakes they had made. The army led by the banners of the Couslands and Highever came thundering towards the panicking and unprepared ranks of the Two Teyrns. Like a crashing wave they smashed against Loghain's left flank, unable to hold it back, the side completely shattered, collapsing onto itself in a matter of minutes. Those who were not enveloped and destroyed by the rebel's reinforcements turned and fled.

The tides of the battle had turned swiftly and cruelly against Loghain and Howe. Instead of celebrating a hard fought victory; they were now trying to escape with their lives. They had to sacrifice the remnants of their left flank and a portion of their vanguard to cover their retreat.

Finally, it was over. The battle was done.

The men around her began to shout and cheer. Jubilation swept through the ranks of the rebels.

"Victory!" They were shouting to one another. "We have victory!"

Cauthrien turned back towards Edmund, his expression was surprisingly impassive. She would've expected a look of triumph or relief from the one who orchestrated the masterful strategy, but there was nothing.

He finally brought his sword to her throat she could feel the cold kiss of the blade's tip.

"On behalf of the rightful Teyrn of Highever, Oren Cousland, I accept your surrender."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing battles aren't my strength, so I apologize if you find the chapter lacking.
> 
> Thanks for reading,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	20. Edmund

"You don't have to see this." His uncle stood in front of him, blocking his entrance into the tent.

"Yes, I do," he said. "I must see what my decisions lead to."

"Victory," his uncle tried to remind him. "That's what it got us."

"There is always a cost to victory," Edmund had learned that during his exile.

"You cannot lose heart in our cause."

"Is that what you're afraid of?" Edmund realizing the crux of his uncle's insistence that he doesn't see those injured soldiers from the battle. "I have seen dead men before, Uncle." Images of him cradling his father's dead body were the first to assault his senses. He quickly pushed it down. Not now, not here.

"I will stay the course, you have my word." He gestured to the entrance that his uncle was currently blocking, "but it is my duty as their liege lord to pay my respects and give my thanks to those who have bled for my cause."

Realizing, that he would be unable to convince him otherwise, he finally relented. Leonas Bryland sighed and stepped aside.

"Thank you," Edmund patted him on the shoulder. "Could you round up the council. I would like to speak with them when I'm done."

"I will," Leonas turned to go, but stopped only after a few steps. He looked over his shoulder, "You're just like her." His eyes glistened at the mention of his sister. "I know Eleanor would be bursting with pride at the man you've become." He took a deep breath, "I just thought you should know that."

"We will avenge them, Uncle."

That got a small smile from him before he nodded and left.

"Lord Cousland?"

"Hmm?" Edmund who had been watching his uncle depart turned to see a wiry, older man standing just inside the flaps of the tent. He was bald with a wispy mustache, and bushy eyebrows, both of which were as white as the fresh fall of snow. It took him a second to put a name to the man: Percival, the leading herbalist who was tasked with overseeing the sick, injured, and the fallen.

"Thank you for letting me see them."

Percival smiled, "We were surprised, but honored by your request." 

"I owe it to them," Edmund said softly.

It was a large rectangular tent, lining the middle of the tent were the tall, thick poles that held it up. There were more than thirty bedrolls. The demands of the recent battle had made these tents necessary. There were a handful of them throughout this army camp to deal with the injured, the sick, and the recently deceased. It wasn't a lot, but it was the best that Edmund and his limited forces and resources could do.

Each bedroll was full. Other herbalists or perhaps servants bustled between the rows of the bedrolls doing their best to serve, and accommodate the ailing soldiers. It was a burdensome sight to see. The men and women who occupied these bedrolls were in various stages of pain. Some were lulled into sleep. Those with the less serious injuries were moaning and groaning before taking their potions and poultices. The more serious were the ones who were shouting, or screaming, or crying, or doing them all at once. They were the ones with the worst wounds: loss limbs, abdomen, chest, or head injuries.

The worst ones Edmund noticed were the ones who were the quietest. Their eyes were empty, faces devoid of emotion or thought. They looked like their soul had been sapped from their very being.

"How many?" Edmund looked down at one of the injured soldiers: an older man whose face was heavily bandaged. He was fast asleep.

"A lot," Percival answered.

Edmund sighed. "How are the supplies?"

"They're holding," Percival was walking beside him.

"Good," Edmund took small comfort in that. "You'll let me know when any supply is low."

"I will," Percival assured him.

The two stopped when they reached one bedroll. It was occupied by a young woman. Her hair was freshly cut due to the red scar at her hairline that crawled halfway up her skull. A herbalist was helping her drink an earthy looking tonic.

They gave their bodies for your family, the voice whispered in the back of his mind. His stomach clenched. He turned away from the young woman when he felt Percival's eyes on him. The old herbalist was looking at him closely.

"I have known war and battle before," he said, "But I haven't known many nobles to actually visit the men and women who they sent to fight and die for them."

"Then they sully the true purpose of what nobles are supposed to be."

"Oh?" Percival's bushy brows furrowed together, "and what's that?"

"We are stewards," Edmund answered, remembering how his father had explained it to him so many years ago. "It is our duty to protect our people: keep them safe, dispense justice. Only when our people are content has a noble done their duty."

"You really believe that?"

"I do," Edmund answered without hesitation.

A small smile crept up under his wispy mustache, "then I pray to the Maker that you win this war."

Edmund stopped in front of another bedroll. A young man was hugging his knees, eyes were red rimmed, he was muttering to himself, while he rocked himself back and forth. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Many years, my lord."

"Do you ever get use to it?"

"No, my lord," he answered.

Edmund nodded, as they continued to walk between the rows of patients.

"Potions and poultices can only do so much, my lord," Percival ran a hand over his bald head. "We need healers."

"The Chantry oversees the distribution of court healers," Edmund pointed out, "I have written to them, but the Grand Cleric has yet to respond to my requests for Healers from the Circle."

"Damn fools," Percival muttered under his breath. "They speak about helping humanity but they don't really live it!" He shook his clenched fists. "All they care about is maintaining their power and control over the mages." He suddenly stopped as if realizing he wasn't alone for his little outburst. He looked up, his anger disappearing from his face before he dipped his head altogether.

"My apologies, my lord, I meant no disrespect," he paused, "It's just very frustrating."

"I can understand that." All Edmund had to do was look around the tent to see all these ailing soldiers to know why Percival would be so upset at the Chantry and their tight restrictions on the Circle of Magi.

Any lingering thoughts he had on the Chantry or the Circle of Magi were lifted when he spotted a soldier he recognized. Lying on a nearby bedroll was Geoffrey, the young man he talked to before the battle. He came up alongside his bedroll, Geoffrey was awake and his eyes red from tears but they widened in recognition at Edmund's approach. He noticed why Geoffrey had been sobbing: his right hand had been cut off at the wrist.

"Geoffrey," Edmund crouched down beside him.

"M'lord," he sniffed, ashamed. He clumsily tried to wipe the tears with his left hand, but he wasn't having a great go at it. He instinctively raised his right arm, but when his stump touched his face, he sobbed loudly and dropped his head.

"I-I'm sorry, m-m lord."

"It's alright," Edmund put a hand on his shoulder to try to calm him. "You have no need to apologize."

The young broken man lying in front of him was a stark comparison to the eager, and happy soldier who he met on the eve of the battle. That was war. It had this terrifying way of reaching deep inside of you and pulling out your innocence, your happiness, and even your humanity. It left this lingering impact on your soul that could never be removed.

"What do you want, Geoffrey?" He wanted to find some way to comfort this young man. There had to be a way to reward him for his service to Edmund's family. The Cousland cause was indebted to all of these brave men and women who gave their bodies and their lives to helping restore the Laurels to Highever. He owed it to them to recognize their sacrifice and honor it.

His eyes filled with tears. "I just want to go home."

Edmund put his hand to rest on Geoffrey's bandaged stump, thinking of returning to Highever with his nephew, he sighed. "Me too, Geoffrey."

\----------------------------

"We have won nothing!" Edmund silenced his very vocal council who were still celebrating and congratulating one another on a victory that happened days ago.

"My family has a saying: don't rest on your laurels." Edmund rapped his knuckles against the table. "One victory does not make this war over." He tapped the Denerim portion of the Ferelden map.

"If anything it will be even more difficult from here on out. I can assure you that Teyrn Loghain will not underestimate us again. He will be cautious and very deliberate in his next move."

"So what is the plan, Lord Cousland?" Lord Telmen spoke up. He was the voice if not the leader of the coalition of the northern banns. And an ally Edmund knew he needed on his side if his cause had any chance of success in this civil war.

"We do nothing," Edmund knew that wasn't what Telmen or any of the other lords were expecting or wanted. 

"Nothing?" Telmen repeated, emboldened by the murmuring of the other nobles.

"I will not strike blindly," Edmund elaborated, "I have sent scouts to report back on our opponent's forces and the surrounding area. Until I know for sure what we're up against I will not risk our men."

"We have the momentum," shouted one noble. "We should march on Denerim!"

A chorus of cheers went up with that suggestion.

"That would be folly," Edmund argued. He wasn't about to march on Fereldan's capital to lay siege to the city in hopes of forcing a surrender out of Howe and Loghain. 

"What about Highever?" another lord suggested. "The people would surely oust Howe's men if they saw the Cousland laurels approaching."

It was tempting, Edmund had to admit. However, It would require marching through the Coastlands which were tightly controlled by Howe. Their army could be defeated or destroyed before they ever reached Highever.

"No," Edmund finally voiced his decision. "Highever is still out of our reach."

It wasn't a popular decision. It wasn't what the nobles wanted. The battle happened days ago, they were getting restless. They wanted another battle. Victory had made them arrogant. It was unsettling.

"We will regroup," Edmund spoke over some of the whispering nobles who weren't quiet in their disapproval of his plan. "Reevaluate and then I assure you we will continue to bring the fight to Howe and Loghain."

He had a few promising leads he wanted to follow. One scout had reported that a surviving bulk of the retreating forces had retreated south not north. And from the banners that the scout described they were nobles and the other important families of Gwaren and the surrounding area. It seemed they were tired of politics and more concerned about the encroaching darkspawn.

Darkspawn, Edmund hadn't needed the lecture from the self righteous Bann Teagan to know that the darkspawn were still very much a threat. For the moment, it was Edmund's cause that had the most to lose from those monsters. Since it was his forces that stood between the darkspawn and the north that was controlled by Howe and Loghain. 

According to his last report, the darkspawn were content at Ostagar. It was a few weeks old, and Edmund would need a new one before he committed moving his forces to the north.

"Enough," Leonas Bryland's voice boomed over the grumbling nobles who were still voicing their displeasure.

"Thank you all for your council," Edmund added. "I assure you, our next move will further our efforts in ending Howe and Loghain's reign. For now all I ask for is a little time and patience."

He noted those still disapproving of their inaction was coming from the contingent of the northern nobles under Lord Telmen. They were the ones calling on a more aggressive strategy, especially since it was their lands that were being unrightfully controlled by their enemies or having already faced the burden of bloodshed and desolation. 

"It could've been worse," his uncle said bluntly when the last noble left.

"Yes, it could've." They could've completely rebelled, he thought dryly.

"Tell me, Edmund," Leonas walked around the table. "How do you see this war ending?"

"The war won't be over until the Cousland laurels are once more waving above Castle Cousland in Highever."

Leonas nodded, satisfied by that answer. He clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. "Well, then I'll leave you to devising the strategy that allows us to do just that." He chuckled, before adding, "no pressure, lad."

The smile that came to his lips was forced and for show for his Uncle. When he left, it dipped into a frown and his eyes returned to the maps on the table, and making sure the pieces on there were properly placed from the most recent scouting reports he received. It wasn't a promising sight to see. The nobles were too busy celebrating the victory at Eastern Crossing to understand how much it cost them. 

Even in defeat, Howe and Loghain were not to be trifled with. They still had more men in the form of two other armies. The army they fought at Eastern Crossing was made up mostly of Loghain's Banns in Gwaren and Eastern Ferelden. Howe still had a loyal army in the Coastlands while Loghain still commanded the main bulk of the royal army that remained unscathed from Ostagar.

Eastern Crossing was a deceiving victory for Edmund, and he needed decisive ones. Yet, everywhere he looked on the map, he saw defeat and death.

And if the darkspawn march north, that dark thought led Edmund's attention to the spot on the map marked Ostagar. He would march to meet them. 

He was fighting a two front war, and he was losing. 

Andraste preserve us.

\--------------------------

"Cauthrien," he stepped into the tent that was serving as her cell. Outside her tent two guards were always on duty. It was a modest sized tent that more resembled servant quarters then an actual prison cell. He decided on a tent believing Cauthrien should have some semblance of privacy because of her status as a knight and as a woman.

A bed roll was tucked to the side, but other than that the tent was bare except for the few places where the ground had been torn up to allow the stakes to be driven into the earth: The stakes that would hold her chains.

His prisoner was sitting on the ground wearing a dress that was plain, worn, and considerably muddy. She sat cross-legged, while her arms were crossed over her chest, her wrists shackled to a chain on a stake that allowed her some movement. Her grey eyes resembling storm clouds, her lips formed a thin line, and her countenance darkened when she gave him her attention. Her face was still bruised from where he hit her in their fight.

The dress was a ploy by him. Edmund wanted Cauthrien outside her comfort zone. So he removed her armor, her weapons and put her in that dress. She was to wear only dresses. He knew they would make the hardened warrior uncomfortable. She wasn't use to frills or laces, but chainmail and leather. He believed that it would help to chip away at her stubbornness and make her more agreeable to an idea he had been mulling over.

"How is my guest?"

She raised her hands, the chains rattled noisily, her face clearly saying: There's your answer.

"A precaution," Edmund insisted smoothly, sitting down in the chair that had been brought in for him.

"Was it the Orlesians who taught you to be such a proper host?"

It always went back to that, he thought dryly. Even with him leading this rebellion, he would always be known first and foremost as Edmund the Exile for what he did in that tournament all those years ago.

There was a common misconception about his exile. That he spent the entire six years in Orlais. The truth was that three days into his exile he left Jader and fled north across the Waking Sea to Cumberland. He spent the next three years traveling across Thedas. It was a big place and he wanted to see what the rest of the world had to offer him.

.Edmund put on a relaxed smile. "We don't have to be enemies."

"You're the one who rebelled against the Regent and Teyrn," she pointed out.

"My quarrel is with Howe," Edmund clenched his jaw. "As long as Teyrn Loghain and Queen Anora treat him as an ally then I will consider them my enemy."

"Is that why you spared me?" a suspicious glint came to her grey eyes. "Are you trying to convert me to your cause?" She sounded insulted at the mere thought, "Because if that's your intention then you may as well slit my throat now." She straightened up, "I will not betray my Teyrn."

"I don't want you to fight for me."

"Then what do you want with me?"

He brushed aside the venom in her voice. She was still defiant. He was expecting that. "You swear many oaths," he observed, seeing confusion cloud her expression. "What if they contradicted one another?"

"They wouldn't!"

"Is that so?"

"It is."

"What if Loghain ordered you to kill a child?" Edmund did his best not to picture the child being his very nephew. "But as a sworn knight of Ferelden you're sworn to protect the innocent that includes children."

"He would never give that order," Cauthrien snapped vehemently.

"Oh?" Edmund could see her tone was a faltering façade for the doubt she was trying to hide. "So Oren would be spared if I lost this war?"

Cauthrien's eyes fell to her shackled wrists. "It wouldn't be on Teyrn Loghain's orders, but Howe's." She tried to find some sort of logic to hide behind.

"Failure to stop Howe would make Loghain just as guilty," Edmund argued. "You know that!"

"Is that why I'm here?" she refused to meet his eyes. "Do you want me to swear some oath to make sure that Teyrn Loghain spares your nephew if it comes to that?"

"No, not at all," Edmund dismissed that notion, "I have no intention of letting you leave."

That got her to look up. Her face darkened, "Then what's the point of this conversation?"

"To tell you something," he took her anger in stride. "I need you."

Her eyebrows furrowed together, while she opened and closed her mouth, fumbling for some sort of response.

"I need you to protect my nephew," he continued, "I expect Howe has hired assassins to kill me and Oren." It was a terrible thing to think about, and speaking it aloud only acknowledged the lurking threat that loomed over his nephew.

"I can take care of myself." He didn't fear an assassin's blade, but he couldn't protect Oren if he was out on campaign. "But Oren is just a boy."

Who's seen too much of war already, he thought glumly. He swallowed the lump in his throat before adding, "He is all I have left in this world."

"You have knights," she finally found her voice. "Why can't you use them?"

"You expect me to trust my nephew to some hedge knight?" Edmund scoffed. "Their only loyalty is to themselves." He shook his head. "Those knights would gladly take Howe's gold in exchange for my nephew's life."

That was why he needed someone who answered to morals, not gold. It seemed a crazy notion to trust Oren to an enemy, but Cauthrien was a different sort of knight. She was rare, devout and principled to her beliefs and her oaths. Not to mention, she was one of the best knights in Ferelden. He wanted the best guarding his nephew. In his gut, he knew this was the right choice.

"Why me?" 

"You are a true knight," he observed. "You would never break your oath to harm a child." 

Edmund didn't add that she was the best choice because she would be more vigilant than any other who he might choose. Others could become complacent, but she didn't have that luxury, she had to perform outstandingly from the beginning to prove her worth and to shake the suspicion that would hover over her due to her allegiance to Loghain. Since if there was an attempt on Oren she would naturally be the first suspect. That would make her work harder, be more attentive in her service.

"I can't be much of a guard in this," she gestured to the dress she was wearing.

Edmund smiled, she was considering it. "If you accepted, your armor and your weapons would be returned to you." He noticed the look of interest flicker across her face. "I will give you until we return to my headquarters to mull over my offer." He stood to leave.

"You can see out the end of this war as a hostage of some importance seeing out an important duty or a prisoner who will wallow and wither away in your own filth." He told her, "An important hostage I will protect with all my power," he stopped to see he had her undivided attention. "But a common prisoner, well those are so easy to lose track of..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it would be interesting how Edmund and his rebels could treat their wounded. The Circle needs to maintain neutrality in fear of the Chantry taking action against them if they got involved in this civil war. And I don't see the Grand Cleric making an exception in helping Edmund and the rebels. After all, she resides in Denerim and sadly the Chantry seems more political then charitable.
> 
> This was the first Edmund chapter that actually allowed me to show a quick glimpse of the life he had been living before this story. Revealing that despite the popular notion in Ferelden that he lived it up in lavish exile in Orlais, he in fact spent those first three years traveling across Thedas.
> 
> Edmund offering Cauthrien to guard his nephew. That should be something to keep an eye on…
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


	21. Anora

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank 'Mickey+Mouse,' for taking the time to drop a comment in the last two chapters. It really means a lot.

There is no shame in falling down, but there is shame in not getting back up.

These were the words that Eleanor Cousland had often told Anora during her stay in Highever when the future Queen of Ferelden learned about politics under the most astute teacher Ferelden could offer, the Teyrna of Highever. During times of turbulence, she was Anora's rock. In times of doubt, she was Anora's confidante. In times of need, she was her mentor.

Sadly, now Eleanor Cousland was gone.

This isn't over.

Anora reminded herself. She had taken her lumps these past few weeks, but she wasn't going to quit. She was the Queen of Ferelden. She wasn't going to allow anyone to take away what she had built and sacrificed these past few years. The people, her people were looking to her to lead them through these trying times. She wasn't going to shirk her duty or pass her responsibilities onto someone else.

No, it was up to her to end this fighting.

Anora understood what needed to be done. This civil war needed to end promptly so that Ferelden could face the darkspawn under a unified banner, her banner. She wasn't looking to victory on the battlefield to offer a quick conclusion to this civil war. It was something else.

No, she corrected herself. It was someone else: Howe.

The self proclaimed Teyrn of Highever and Arl of Denerim was the catalyst of this civil war and the focal grievance of Edmund Cousland and his rebel supporters. With Howe deposed, order could be restored.

It would be no simple feat. Howe had entrenched himself in the Coastlands and ingratiated himself with her father who as Regent commanded the Royal Armies. Anora was queen, but her power she hated to say had been weakened with the death of her husband coupled with her father taking up the mantle as Regent and Lord Protector of Ferelden.

It was an insult to think she could only rule as Queen because she had Cailan as King, and even now she could only rule because her father was the Regent. It was a frustrating struggle. It was a poorly conceived notion and one that she hoped to remove.

Women make up half of the population and deserve the same respect and responsibility that goes with ruling over them that the men are seemingly given.

This was just another one of the teachings that Eleanor had often recited during their time again. In Highever it was properly practiced. The Teyrna held the same power and influence as the Teyrn. 

What could help with the mending process though was seeing that justice be given to the one responsible for carrying out such the atrocity at Highever. Howe was nearly untouchable with the power of his armies, and the prestige of his titles, but he was hardly invincible. It just required the right approach.

Anora believed she had found the right approach.

"Your Majesty?"

"Yes?" She turned to see her loyal seneschal standing in front of her. Luwin was quick to cross his arms and bow. "What news, Luwin?"

"We have some leads," he made his way over to the seat across from hers.

"Let's hear them," she watched the seneschal shuffle through the various pieces of vellums he had been carrying.

"One of our agents reports that Howe's lover is still in Denerim."

"His lover?"

"Yes, Lady Sophie," Luwin informed her. "It is believed he is using Lady Sophie's connections of her native country Rivain to exploit trading goods, and pocketing a portion of these goods and a good deal of coin."

Anora leaned back in her seat. This sort of thing was sadly rampant, and seen only as a minor crime by some of the nobility. It was worth keeping an eye on, but it wasn't enough to bring Howe's reign to an end.

"Is there anything else?"

"There is another promising lead," Luwin pulled out one of the pages of vellum, before hesitating. "But, we still do not have the proper proof."

"What is it?" She found her interest piqued at seeing her seneschal's concerned expression.

"The Court's Treasurer found an oddity in his recent report," Luwin began, "He was going over the Court's finances and discovered that there is a discrepancy."

"What sort of discrepancy?" Anora didn't like the sound of this one bit.

"The city's treasury is many silver bars short from last month's account. There is no explanation. It's as if they disappeared from the vaults."

"They didn't disappear," Anora dismissed that notion. "They were stolen. Someone is stealing from the Crown." The revelation caused a cold fury to form within her. This was an offense punishable by death. "Who is responsible?"

"We don't have any strong leads," Luwin bowed his head, sensing his failure for not having any reliable evidence. "But the disappearing of the silver bars lines up with Howe's arrival to the city."

It could be a coincidence, the pragmatic part of her mind pointed out. She couldn't allow her feelings for the man cloud her judgment, if she moved against Howe and it turned out he wasn't responsible she would be made the fool. No, she had to play this carefully. She needed proof. 

"I want more loyal men guarding these vaults at all hours," Anora ordered, "We cannot afford to lose anymore with the darkspawn threat looming." She understood that those precious silver bars would be important in buying grain from the Free Marches to help feed the growing mass of refugees and lessen Fereldan's growing burden from the darkspawn.

"I will see to it personally, Your Majesty," Luwin crisply replied.

"Finding out who is responsible is our top priority," Anora had a strong suspicion it was Howe, but she needed irrefutable evidence. 

The sooner they could get it, the sooner they could remove Howe and bring an end to this civil war.

\--------------------------------------

Thud

Anora lowered her bow, admiring the accuracy from her last shot. The arrow hit its mark slightly left of dead center. She plucked another arrow out of her quiver.

The bow she was using had been a gift from Empress Celene two years back. It was beautifully designed out of dragonthorn, the limbs of the bow bore finely crafted carvings of brambles and amidst those brambles there rested a solitary rose.

She was also equipped with a simple, but elegantly crafted silverite breastplate that bore the Royal Sigil of Ferelden. Her hair was properly braided so as not to interfere with her aim. She wore a simple vambrace with the Gwaren sigil imprinted on her bow arm. She also wore a glove to protect her fingers stinging. The glove had been a gift from Bann Alfstanna of Waking Sea last year.

This was her sanctuary. Archery allowed her to properly vent her emotions in a controlled environment. Anora understood that appearances mattered. Here, she could still look regal and dignified in a manner that was expected from the Queen of Ferelden.

When she was young she was instructed in the basics of swordplay and archery. But it wasn't until her time in Highever, however that she learned to truly appreciate archery. Under the tutelage of the Teyrna, Anora quickly learned to love it. She had many fond memories of Eleanor teaching her it in the gardens outside Cousland Castle.

Archery was a great escape for her. This was where she thrived. It was a skill that was earned never given. It took practice and dedication to master. Wealth and blood status couldn't get you ahead, only those willing to work hard advanced.

It didn't dull her senses or lull her skills it honed them. She needed to stay focused if she wanted to hit her target. A mindset she carried beyond archery.

In one fluid motion she raised and drew the bow. Anora could still hear Eleanor's soft voice whispering encouragement and coaching her on the proper form. It had been the Cousland Matriarch that had showed Anora that many of the skills you need to properly govern are those that can be found in archery such as concentration and patience.

She aimed, focusing all of her effort and attention on the center of the target. Blocking out all distractions, until all she could see was the target in front of her. She released the arrow and watched it soar through the air before hitting its target-dead center.

Anora allowed herself a small smile. It was always a satisfying sight to see one of her arrows hit the center. She relished that feeling: The sense of accomplishment. It was infectious whether she got it in archery or in Court. It helped drive her.

"Your Majesty?"

The voice of her Seneschal turned her attention away from her target. "Yes, Luwin?" She waved him over noticing his hesitance to get closer in fear of distracting her.

"Has there been any news of the battle?" The last report they had gotten had been of her father's plans to meet the rebels at a little spot known as Eastern Crossings. 

"None, your Majesty."

Anora wasn't sure what she should feel when the outcome of the battle was finally revealed. She expected a victory for her father's forces. He was considered a fine tactician who had proved his grasp of tactics during the Rebellion against Orlais. Despite the setbacks at Ostagar, her faith in her father's ability was still strong. Yet, the thought of hearing news of such a victory didn't brighten her mood.

"What about in our other matter?" She asked discreetly. It had been almost a week since she tasked Luwin with the investigation of trying to find out who was stealing from the crown's vaults.

"No clear sign of his involvement," Luwin frowned, "But I have a feeling in my gut he's the one responsible."

"I do too," she agreed softly, watching a servant remove her arrow from the target before giving the all clear signal for her to proceed to shoot another. "However, we need evidence." She plucked an arrow from the quiver.

"I know, your Majesty," Luwin ducked his head. "I am sorry."

"You've done nothing wrong," She wanted to soothe any concerns that her loyal seneschal might be having. "I could not ask for a better adviser."

The words had the desired effect. Luwin straightened up immediately, his chest puffing slightly at the praise. "Thank you, Your Majesty,"

She turned away to hide her smile. "Those silver bars must still be in the city." She placed the shaft of the arrow on the arrow rest. "We need to find them before they're smuggled out."

"We will, your Majesty," Luwin vowed. "I have a contact within the city."

"A contact?" Anora could tell by Luwin's tone that this wasn't one of their agents.

"Yes," he shifted his feet, "He's a thief and a criminal, but has an ear to this city better than any one of our agents."

"Is he reliable?" At this point, she was more inclined to get the evidence against Howe then worry about where it came from. Her first priority was removing Howe from power. That was more important to her, and if she had to get her hands dirty to do it, then so be it.

"For the right price," Luwin answered delicately.

"Do you trust him?"

"In this matter?" Luwin replied, "Yes, I think he can help us."

"Do it," Anora trusted Luwin's judgment.

"I'll reach out to him tonight."

"Good," She raised and drew the bow. The movement was fluid and automatic. It was ingrained into her mind from the countless times before. Focusing on her target, and pushing out all distractions, she let the arrow loose.

"Nice shot, your Majesty," praised Luwin when the arrow hit the target with a thud.

It was dead center. "Thank you." She was pleased with herself at how her last two shots had hit the mark.

"Your Majesty?" Erlina, Anora's handmaiden approached coming from the Royal Palace's direction. "Lord Wulff is here."

"Excellent," Anora stood still as two servants carefully removed her breastplate. "See him to my parlor."

Erlina curtseyed before departing.

"Are you sure about this, your Majesty?" There was a hint of trepidation in the Seneschal's voice.

"This is a means to end the civil war," She handed her bow to one of the servants.

"I know," Luwin looked uncertain, "but if your father or Howe finds out…"

"I am the Queen," she reminded him. She pulled off her vambrace and removed her glove and handed them to the waiting servants.

"Of course, your Majesty," Luwin hastily bowed. "I meant no offense."

"None was given," she assured him. "I want you at the meeting with Lord Wulff."

"I'll go get the document then." Luwin bowed before leaving.

\-----------------------

"Your Majesty," Lord Wulff immediately stood up from his seat at Anora's presence. Bowing low, "For what do I owe this honor?"

"Lord Wulff," she replied cordially. Taking in the Arl's appearance, he was a towering man of massive size. He was dressed in simple finery, the sigil of West Hills emblazoned on his chest: a bull's head. His long gray hair had been put in a simple ponytail, his graying beard was disheveled. She noticed dark rings under his piercing dark eyes. The loss of his two eldest sons had greatly impacted the Arl of West Hills.

"Please sit," she gestured back to the seat the Arl had been sitting in.

He nodded his thanks before sitting back down.

"Firstly let me say how deeply sorry I am to hear of the passing of your two sons," Anora said softly, "I know my words are hardly any balm to soothe the excruciating pain you must be feeling."

"Thank you, your Majesty," Lord Wulff replied his voice betraying his anguish. 

She had respectfully given him her most sincere condolences with the loss of his two sons, but Anora understood that it wasn't wise to remain on this sensitive topic. She didn't want it to fog his judgment. She needed him focused. She couldn't afford him to be distracted if he was going to help her end this civil war. The Arl of West Hills was an important and influential figure throughout western Ferelden. He was a reasonable and respected voice throughout the Bannorn, a reputation she planned on leaning on to try to cease the fighting.

"This city is hurting," Lord Wulff said gravely, "Denerim is filled with the sobs of wives who've lost husbands, orphans' cries go unanswered, while refugees continue to pour into the city every day."

"These are dire times," Anora agreed, encouraged by the Arl's words. 

"Aye, your Majesty," he bowed his head.

"Your Majesty," Luwin arrived, carrying the enclosed envelope that Anora had requested. The Seneschal bowed to her before saying a few comforting words to Gallagher who took them with a nod of thanks. He then took his seat in a chair next to Lord Wulff's.

Erlina then appeared from a side door carrying a tray with glasses of wine. Her handmaiden silently dispersed the glasses to Anora and then to her guests before disappearing once more through the side door.

"Ferelden needs you, Gallagher." Anora informed him bluntly.

"I'm at your service," he said, after taking a small sip of wine from his glass.

"And I appreciate it," Anora replied sincerely, "As you know this civil war must end if Ferelden has any hope of stopping the darkspawn."

"Indeed," he nodded, his expression softened, "But what happened to the Couslands is a travesty."

I will not fail them, Anora vowed silently. "It is," she agreed, "and that is why I'm appointing you my personal envoy. I want you to go to Edmund Cousland and treat with him in hopes of coming to peaceful terms that will end this civil war."

Lord Wulff didn't seem surprised by this. The Arl of West Hills leaned back in his seat, looking pensive. "I'm not sure Edmund will be open to talking peace terms with you, Your Majesty, as long as your father is allied with Lord Howe," he pointed out respectfully. 

Anora turned to Luwin, giving the seneschal a small nod. He handed over the enclosed envelope to a confused Lord Wulff. "I believe this will prove my sincerity."

The confused expression remained on Gallagher's face as he examined the envelope.

"You may open it, Lord Wulff."

He did, tentatively, pulling out a crisp piece of vellum before silently reading the document. His eyes betrayed his surprise, his mouth opened slightly as he continued to read. It was clear he wasn't expecting this bold move on Anora's part. When he finished reading, his dark eyes moved up from the vellum to Anora. "Your Majesty, is your father aware of this ruling?"

"He is not," Anora brushed aside the Arl's concern. "My father is the commander of Ferelden's armies, but I am the Queen and responsible for dispensing justice amongst my people."

"Of course," Gallagher replied, slipping the document back into the envelope. "I will leave for Caer Oswin first thing in the morning." He paused, "if that is agreeable with you?"

"It is," Anora decided, "I cannot stress enough the importance of the document you are carrying."

"I understand," The Arl of West Hills was looking at the envelope as if it was a precious jewel. "This could most certainly end the civil war."

"It will," She was sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I didn't totally botch the archery aspect of this chapter. I liked the idea of Anora being a skilled archer and learning under Eleanor. I thought it was important to show another side of Anora. 
> 
> This chapter was important to convey that Anora isn't just going to sit idly by and allow her father and Howe to continue to run things. She will be active in trying to end this civil war and unite Ferelden under her rule to face the darkspawn. Loghain has his ways and Anora has hers and this chapter was a way to highlight Anora's means and determination to end this civil war.
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> -Spectre4hire


End file.
